


Things I have Loved I’m Allowed to Keep

by truebluemoon



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, And the devils are here, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It's Just Gonna Get Weirder and Weirder, Life Happens, Loneliness, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mind Screw, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Recreational Drug Use, Sad But Not a Tragedy, School Play, Shakespeare Play, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Surreal, Theatre, hell is empty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 04:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truebluemoon/pseuds/truebluemoon
Summary: If Chloe dies, everyone is supposed to live. Nothing bad is ever supposed to happen. Jefferson's gone. Nathan's gone. Video taken care of.So, Max has to wonder, why is everything going to shit, anyways?





	1. Max Loves Chloe

**Author's Note:**

> Usually, I write in past tense. With what I plan for this fic, I decided that present tense would be best to start off with.

Chloe is looking at her.

It’s dark in here, but the light in the hall lays siege to the room, and its glow finds its way through the cracks. The same way she makes her home in the fissures in Chloe’s walls, reaching out to discover some secret that lays beyond.

They’re lying on their sides, facing one another. Max thinks they’re almost like mirror images, opposite but the same. The blankets twist around their forms, creating little hills and valleys on the surface of the bed. The bed is the world, and Max and Chloe are its gods.

“Max,” She breathes, like Max is a beacon in a storm, and Max loves and hates the way she says her name. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Max feels around for Chloe’s hand on the bed, wanting to entwine their fingers. “Thinking about what?”

There’s a pause, and she could hear rustling of the bushes from outside the window.

“How you chose me.”

Max wakes up.

 

 

Her heartbeat is rapid and light like a hummingbird’s wings. Dead birds, everywhere. Beached whales. Storms.  _I’m sorry, Chloe. I had to end it._ She tells herself that every night as a prayer, even though she knows it won’t stop the dreams. When she had a nightmare as a kid, she’d run to Mom and Dad and tearfully recount all the horrors she experienced. When she was _really_ young, they’d even scoot over and let her sleep in their bed, so they could protect her from the monsters.

Now, who can she turn to? The only other person who knows everything that happened is dead, and it’s not like she can just wake up her dorm hall with the news, “Hey, I had to let my best friend die so you jackasses can have more parties. Now, I might have PTSD. You’re welcome.” It isn’t exactly poetic. Suffering in silence is poetic. How Chloe died is poetic. Chloe Price died for your sins. Chloe Price chose hundreds of lives over hers. Chloe Price is the true Everyday Hero.

And they’ll never know. No one knows except the person who loved her most, who still loves her most.

Max peers over at the digital clock, ignoring the sore pull she feels at her side from the movement. It reads **5 AM** in bright red. She knows she needs more sleep. Her system isn’t made to run on less than five hours of shuteye, which is how many hours she’s been averaging ever since the storm that never happened. Ever since Chloe’s sacrifice. Ever since their last kiss. If that week never actually happened, does that mean Max loses her first kiss? _No, it was real_. It was worth it.

Chloe was worth everything.

Max lets her head collide with her pillow again. Ah, that’s better. This is fine. Max isn’t depressed. Max isn’t fighting insomnia. She’s fine. It’s just her in her bed, and monsters don’t exist. The Jeffersons of the world are all in jail, and girls like Rachel Amber are never murdered, and boys like Nathan are never groomed. Also, teenagers like Max never have to make decisions that tear them up inside, to the point they feel broken.

“The world is broken,” She decides instead, and she feels she’s fulfilling that emo teen stereotype, but this eureka moment rings too true to dismiss.

The world is filled with horrors that Max would never be able to dream up. There’s murderers and rapists and dictators and kidnappers and all the rest. Even just the average person, like all the students who ate up Kate’s video like candy, is capable of so much cruelty. The _banality_ of evil. People who are normal and maybe even good who hurt others because it’s easy, it’s what’s normal, it’s their job. Max knows now how bad the world can _be_. That’s what she gave up Chloe for.

But she gets up to face it anyways.

 

 

The new photography teacher is nervous. That much Max can tell. His head jerks from student to student, eyes wide with the knowledge of what happened to the last teacher. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and it’s so wide it looks like it hurts. He keeps at least five feet give or take between himself and any student, keeping his out-of-class conversations short but friendly. It’s as if the students are made of glass to him.

“And Hurrell popularized the - Sorry, I mean Bruno Bernard popularized the “pin-up” style…” And he apologizes a lot, too.

Max feels bad for him. It can’t be easy coming in a couple months into the curriculum.

But a smaller voice deep inside whispers, _He’s just like Jefferson but more careful. They’re all possible Jeffersons_. Still, the voice is faint, practically static, and she ignores it. The world may be filled with horrors, but Mr. Lehrer is far from its worst. He’s no Mark Jefferson. Max has to remind herself of that sometimes.

“Shouldn’t someone who plagiarizes George Hurrell like it’s going out of style know what he’s copying?” Victoria’s sneer hasn’t dulled. Max thought that maybe she could make Victoria in this timeline nicer. She got the idea in her head that if she gave up Chloe, then the rest of the world would fix itself to make it up to her. They’d all join hands and sing Kumbaya.

Victoria’s lackeys laugh along, voices high and ruthless. Like hyenas.

Max, once again, was wrong. The world isn’t fair like that. She knows better now. She decides to use that knowledge for good. “Actually, Victoria, I always thought Mr. Lehrer’s work better reflected Lazlo Willinger. The harsh lighting and elaborate sets… But I get how you could see Hurrell.” She punctuates that with a smile.

Except Victoria isn’t one to give up when the going gets tough. “Oh, I suppose you’d think _that_.” She shifts in her seat, straightening her posture in that Victoria Chase way that says, _You’re going to regret this._ “It’s very easy to confuse Hurrell’s style with Willinger’s. FYI, Hurrell’s choices in his shots were very distinct, with a style obviously influenced by his painterly background. How you could interpret his use of “Rembrandt lighting” with Willinger’s German Cinema pastiche is… Well, it _does_ take a trained eye to spot the differences. ” Victoria is well-trained, alright, well-trained in condescension.

Mr. Lehrer looks between them like someone stranded in a foreign country who doesn’t speak one word of the language. He intervenes anyways, telling them to postpone their debate until after class. He stutters as he says it, and Max thinks Victoria is going to eat him alive. Figuratively.

Then again, considering everything that happened last month, she wouldn’t be shocked if cannibalism is next on the schedule.

Chloe would be proud of Max’s recent morbid outlook.

“Now, class, who can tell me what Depth of Field is?” He looks around the classroom. No one has their hand up except for Victoria. He forces a smile. “Ms. Chase?”

“Depth of Field describes what the proportion of the photo is in focus. It’s controlled by a camera’s aperture, the opening at which light goes through the lens.”

“That’s correct! And why would we want only part of the photo in focus?” Once again, Victoria is the only one willing to answer the question. After a few moments, he finally says, “Someone who isn’t Victoria Chase? Anyone?” His gaze then falls squarely on Max, and she shrinks in her seat when he finally prompts her to answer.

“Uh…” She tries to sort through her mind but comes up empty-handed. “Because… the blur is nice to look at?” Max knows it’s a stupid answer, and she can see it in the way the teacher’s smile widens just a tad too far. Her hand itches to reach out and rewind. But it’d be for nothing. After she prevented the storm, she couldn’t rewind, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe the universe decided she can’t be trusted with time travel anymore. If so, Max can’t blame them. Still, it would have been nice to have a redo to spare herself the embarrassment.

Maybe even a pink slip. _You, Max Caulfield, are fired by the universe. Turn in the badge and the powers at the front desk._

When she sneaks a glance to her left, Victoria looks insufferably smug.

Mere minutes later, the bell rings, and Max flashes Kate a reassuring smile. _Please don’t kill yourself. Please don’t kill yourself._ Kate smiles then frowns. Is it a frown over Victoria’s behavior? Over Max picking fights with Victoria? Over a bad breakfast burrito? Max can’t help but read too much into everything Kate does these days. She might not have attempted suicide in this timeline _yet_ , but that doesn’t mean she won’t be capable of it. The video was still a thing in this timeline. _Was_ because it was finally taken down. Principal Wells couldn’t afford another scandal, so he rounded up the people responsible and, because a lot of them were rich kids from donor families, they mostly got away with it. Especially Victoria.

Besides, Nathan got taken into police custody before Wells could have the chance to punish him for it.

If Max was the principal, they all would have been expelled. Kate doesn’t need to deal with them every goddamn day. High school is bad enough without having to deal with bullies. The world is bad enough without having to deal with bullies.

As Max leaves the classroom, she’s suddenly pushed. Her back hits the lockers so hard it sends a shock through her system. Her knees start to wobble, and she has to force herself to stay standing. Just when she manages to shake it off, she realizes that in front of her is Victoria with Taylor and Courtney. She’s not sure which one pushed her, but she’s sure it was Victoria’s idea either way so that’s where she centers her glare.

“What is it?” Max asks, tired of this.

“Oh, Mr. Lehrer, your work is so reflective of an artistic genius!” Victoria mocks. “Wow, Max, you’ve really outdone yourself in the Kiss Ass Olympics.”

As if on cue, Taylor and Courtney cackle. Again, they really do sound like hyenas. It can’t be just Max who hears it. It’s mean to think so, but Max thinks she’s earned the right to think some harsh truths.

“Thanks,” Max says. “Can I go now?” Victoria’s in front of her, and, with her lackeys at her sides, Max can’t go left or right.

Their smiles fade, and Courtney searches Victoria and Taylor’s faces for the right response. 

“ _Can_ you? I want to see you try,” Victoria replies, motioning to her minions blocking the way.

“Victoria, with all due lack of respect,” Max confesses, her voice almost monotone, “I don’t care what you want.”

When they just stare at her, unable to respond to pure apathy, she takes the opportunity to lightly push Taylor aside, so she can get to her locker.

It’s the small victories that get her though the day.

 

 

The days pass. Max forgets to mark them off on the calendar sometimes.

 

 

Kate sets down her teacup on its little accompanying plate. “You know, you haven’t said “wowser” _once_ this past month.” She looks solemn, with her hands folded in her lap like that. “And I bet you haven’t picked up your camera in a while either.”

“Wowser,” Max says, deadpanned.

“You only said it because-” Kate cuts herself off. “Max, my _point_ is you haven’t been acting like yourself lately. I’m worried about you.”

Max looks down at the small makeshift table between them made up of textbooks and a tablecloth. There’s a couple plates for their cups, another for the teapot, and a few more for the snacks. She takes a small vanilla wafer and nibbles on it. It’s sweet and bland, like their tea parties. But bland isn’t bad. Bland can be comforting. Bland is coming home to a boring house in the suburbs and opening the door to someone you’ve been married to for thirty years who you know like the back of your hand. After what she’s been through, Max isn’t sure she’ll ever have a bland life again.

It doesn’t stop her from thinking about it, though. In Max’s fantasies, that someone in the boring suburban house has blue hair and a pocket knife and _wrinkles_ because she lived past age nineteen.

“I’m sorry that I made you worry, but, really, Kate, I’m fine.” She forces a smile for her benefit. If anything, Kate should be focused on her own mental health. The girl _did_ attempt suicide in another timeline, after all. It just now occurs to Max that she doesn’t remember the last time Kate laughed. It’s a depressing thought.

Kate takes a dainty little sip from her teacup before leaning in. Her voice is softer now, but she speaks frankly. “Max, I used to say that when you kept asking if I was okay after Mr. Jefferson was arrested, and you _know_ I wasn’t fine.”

 _But this is different_ , Max is tempted to say. Instead, she doesn’t say anything at all.

Max and Kate spend the rest of their teatime in disconcerting silence.

 

 

 

Once again, Max is sprawled on the bed with Chloe, the latter’s hand running through Max’s hair. Max’s head is laying on Chloe’s shoulder, and the room is filled with morning light peeking through the blinds.

“Max,” Chloe says, “I love you.”

That’s all Max wants to hear, in an infinite loop. Chloe after Chloe after Chloe saying “I love you, Max,” for as long as the Earth turns. Then, when the Earth no longer _is_ , Max would rewind to the very beginning to do this all over again. Dinosaurs dying, primates evolving, people starving, ice caps melting, Chloe Prices loving Max Caulfields, forever and ever.

Max could admit that, but she doesn’t.

“I love you, too,” Max tells her instead, her eyes fluttering closed.

When she opens them next, she’s in her dorm room, and Chloe is nowhere to be seen.

 

 

 

When she starts to nod off in her history class, Warren nudges her awake. She catches the end of some tangent about inventions during the Tang Dynasty. Once upon a time, she would have found lectures like that interesting. After all, where would photography be without the printing press? Now, learning just feels pointless.

“Didn’t get enough sleep?” He asks, lowering his voice to avoid the teacher’s wrath. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

 _That’s because I have_. Max thinks that’s the understatement of the year. She wonders what he would say if she told him she was in Jefferson’s Dark Room. The phrase is all over the media about the case. It’s something the prosecution can market. He took the girls to The Dark Room. He wanted to violate them in The Dark Room. Rachel Amber died in The Dark Room. Frankly, Max just wants him sentenced to life in prison as soon as possible. Even if she hates the media craze around it, she’ll put up with anything that ensures he’s locked up forever.

She keeps holding her breath for the other shoe to drop, but, so far, the prosecution has a strong case.

That’s what she keeps telling herself anyways.

“Finals are coming up,” Max tells him with a shrug. “I’ve been studying.” That’s a lie. She hasn’t ever cared enough about tests to lose sleep over them and especially not now of all times. But it’s a lie he can accept, and he does, rather easily.

_Oh, Warren, we were never meant to be._

She could be sad about it, think over all the drive-in movie dates and kisses under umbrellas and brown-haired children they could have had, but she isn’t. Max never wanted Warren. Max just wants Chloe and their dark room in the dreams.

 

 

Victoria directs a glare at Max all throughout their photography class, and, afterwards, it’s she and she alone who has Max against the wall. She’s close enough that Max can smell her perfume, and it’s probably some fancy designer perfume because it smells awfully strong despite the vaguely floral notes. Flowers are supposed to be delicate, aren’t they? But she supposes there’s nothing about Victoria that’s delicate. When she walks into a room, she doesn’t just steal your attention; she _commands_ it.

They’re in the bathroom, Max realizes after a while, from the color and finish of the tiles. The room’s lighting is harsh and fluorescent. She read once that fluorescent lights give people migraines.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Victoria hisses under her breath, and she’s towering over Max. “This is fucking disgraceful.”

Victoria seems to be a chronic victim of these fluorescent light migraines, if Max had to guess.

She holds up Max’s recent photography quiz that was passed back in class earlier.  In pen, the teacher wrote, _4/20_ and _Please make an effort to study_. If Chloe were here, she’d make some silly weed joke about her score. Max laughs just from the thought of it. Maybe Chloe would even be smoking her joint while cracking the joke.

“This isn’t funny, you moron.” Victoria throws the paper up into the air. “But I guess it doesn’t matter to you anymore.”

 _Max, I don’t hate you… I actually think you're..._ The memory of the party she didn’t go to echos over and over, but she couldn’t remember the rest.

“You didn’t even _turn in_ your last photography project, meaning you’re not even getting fifty percent of the project’s points. You got a _zero_.” Victoria continues despite Max’s lack of conversation.

_Max, I don’t hate you…_

“Why do you care, Victoria? All you ever do is insult me.” Max points out.

“I _don’t_ care.” Victoria lets out a noise of frustration. “Fine, waste your talent! Flunk out of Blackwell. Fade into nothing. It just means less competition for me.”

And then Max is alone in the bathroom, the fog starting to clear. It feels like waking up, despite the fact she wasn’t asleep.

 

 

The flyer is displayed everywhere. Max hadn’t looked at it so closely before, but now she’s questioning how she hadn’t. It’s a garish highlighter green with the title _Hamlet Sign-Ups_ in black and lines and lines of people’s names. _Sign up for auditions. Sign up for tech. Sign up. Everything’s fine. Sign up. Nobody died._ Max can’t help but dislike the timing. It’s too much too soon. _Auditions: 3PM Monday, December 2nd. 4PM Tuesday, December 3rd. Results will be posted in January._ Max frowns, wondering what day it is. 

Her phone says October 6th. She blinks. Now, October 22nd. She blinks. Now, November 18th.

Suddenly, she’s writing her name on a blank line under “Tech Signups.” She doesn’t know why. She’d never been involved in the Drama department before. She has more than enough drama in her personal life (lives?) without adding another helping to her plate. The Other Max probably would have been up for it, but this Max knows her limits. Come to think of it, she’s probably one of the few Blackwell students who don’t venture much out of their comfort zone.  Even a lot of the jocks take something like Music Appreciation or Game Design just because they assume it’ll be an easy A. Her signing up for something should be a good sign. She has a distraction.

Elementary school logic says: red means stop, green means go. The flyer is green. It’s a go, then.

She looks over the sign-up lists curiously. Practically every extrovert she knows signed up for the casting auditions. The list is so long it’s spilling onto the blank areas at the bottom of the flyer. Max never really gave much notice to how popular the plays are until now, but she supposes she was always in her own little world, a world with her and Chloe and the possibility of a missing girl that’s still alive. She raises her line of sight.

At the top of the list is Rachel Amber. Max blinks. At the top of the list is Victoria. Then, Taylor, Courtney, Logan, Hayden, Dana, Juliet. She doesn’t know why, but she’s getting a weird sense of déjà vu. She continues the list, spotting Kate’s scrawl with a smile. She looks over at the tech crew sign-ups next. She sees Brooke, Alyssa, Daniel, Stella, and _Warren?_ She doesn’t think of Warren as the kind of guy to help out with plays, but, then again, she doesn’t think of Warren much at all.

Max wonders if she’s a bad friend.

Below Warren’s name is someone she doesn’t recognize. Then, right below them is Max Caulfield’s signature.

Even by the time she reaches her dorm room, she still can’t convince herself she made the right decision.

 

 

When Kate asks her if she’d come with her to auditions for moral support, Max agrees. Kate deserves the world, but Max can start with just making her smile, and Kate does.

The smile is a good sign. _Please don’t kill yourself. Please don’t kill yourself._

They enter the small lecture hall, which has a small elevated platform that must double as a stage, and Max spots Victoria and her lackeys already sitting in the front row. Victoria doesn’t look back at them, and something about that makes Max feel angry, but she doesn’t know why. Victoria’s world and Max’s world should always be kept separate. It’s a universal truth, like the sun setting and the permanence of death. So Victoria ignoring her should be a relief. Kate doesn’t notice Max watching Victoria intently, or, if she does, she doesn’t comment on it. They take their seats in the third row, beside students Max doesn’t recognize. Kate does, though, from the way she easily starts conversation with them about classes.

Max always thought of Kate as a wallflower, but maybe she’s wrong.

Maybe it just takes the right kind of people for Kate to open up.

The drama teacher clears his throat. “I suppose you all know who I am, and, if you do not, my name is Mr. Keaton. That is less important than who you are. As you have all traveled far, I will make this brief. I will read out names from the list. When you come to the stage, state your name and what work the monologue is from. Remember, you must enchant me and my dear assistant if you wish to land the role of your dreams!” He has a theatricality to his voice, almost like he is constantly on the verge of a diva’s meltdown.

He takes his seat next to Stella, who is so involved in Blackwell extracurriculars Max has no idea how she finds time for sleep. Max asked her many times why she does so many activities, and Stella’s answer changes each time.

The first name he reads out causes Max to roll her eyes.

Victoria Chase eagerly makes her way to the stage and states the monologue is from the play Approaching Zanzibar. She straightens her posture and begins. “Death is so scary. Aren’t you scared?” 

_Max… Oh god, where are we? What’s happening?_

_You’ve been drugged, like Kate… and me. Listen carefully, Victoria, Jefferson is very dangerous-_

_I don’t want to die like this! I’m only 18._

“I get so scared thinking about it, I can’t sleep. Every night I touch my bedside light forty-four times and hold my breath for as long as I can and pray, “Please God, don’t let me die! I’ll be good, I’ll be good!””

_Victoria, please listen to me, I have a plan._

_Really? How? Max… I’m so scared._

“And then I start imagining what it will be like… You know, being dead in a coffin, being underground all alone in the dark…”

Max in The Dark Room. Victoria in The Dark Room. She’s sobbing in The Dark Room.

If they listen close, they can hear the cries of a hundred girls that came before them. Girls tied up and drugged up. Girls who are scared and have best friends who love them. And now it’s their turn, their turn to die in The Dark Room with silent screams on their lips.

“… and trying to call Mommy and Daddy but they can’t hear me because I’m so far underground.”

Max tries to tell herself it didn’t happen. This is a different timeline.

But that doesn’t make it any less real.

“… And, and then I start thinking about being there forever and ever and ever and ever until my body’s a skeleton…”

It’s death by a thousand cuts. It’s an infinite loop of reminders that cut at that part of her she’s trying to forget. It’s a forever without Chloe Price.

“And, and… Oh no, it’s starting to happen now… I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die... ”

Max doesn’t even realize how out of it she is until Kate asks if she’s okay.

Max says she doesn’t know.

 

 

Chloe just keeps haunting her dreams.

Max would ask why, but she’s afraid she’ll leave. 


	2. Max Loves Photographs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be a little different from other chapters in some key ways, but this is NOT filler. This is in part set-up and in part a chance for Max to breathe.

Max sits in the airport, drifting in and out of consciousness, until she sees a couple familiar faces, and, before she can say hello, their arms are around her.

“We’re so proud of you,” Mom says.

“You went through so much,” Dad agrees.

Oh, they have no idea. Max doesn’t respond, however. She doesn’t say anything until they lead her outside, and the cold air blooms against her skin. The sky is grey, filled with dark clouds and open space.

“It’s raining,” She notes, and her parents rattle off the morning weather report. They take her hands like she’s seven-years-old again, guiding her to the car. They load her luggage into the trunk, and she waits for the accompanying sound of it closing before she fiddles with the seatbelt.

She looks out the window to the many people arriving and leaving the airport. There’s students like her coming home for break, reuniting with family and grinning as they embrace. They’re all young and can’t stifle the excitement in their voices, and it’s so joyous that Max has to look away. It’s like looking into the sun.

There’s also masses of tourists scattered about, huddling together and speaking in different languages. The ones from warmer climates are wearing at least three layers and shivering, while the ones used to cooler weather are taking photos of everything and everyone. Besides them are the adults in dark suits who stare out at the scene like Max is doing, and she wonders what drives them to melancholy. _What wouldn’t in this world of ours?_

Meanwhile, the cars come and go. People are picked up and dropped off. Doors close and open. Her parents climb into the car and shut the doors with a click. Every time they catch Max’s glance in one of the mirrors, they give her a smile. She sees in them the same smiles she gives Kate Marsh.

Just as they’re ready to hit the gas pedal, her dad turns in his seat to look at Max face-to-face.

“Sweetie, aren’t you going to take a picture before we leave?” There’s expectation in his voice.

Max looks over at the seat next to her, and she just now notices her camera, the one Chloe gave her.

She looks back at her parents and tries to smile. “No, Dad.”

 

 

Max sees Chloe at the steering wheel. The golden rays from outside the window are shifting to copper and amethyst. It’ll be dark soon, so they should enjoy the daylight while it lasts. She pushes herself up with a groan.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Chloe greets cheerfully. “There’s a diner at the next exit. It probably won’t be like Mom’s cooking but…”

“No, but it’ll be good to get some food,” Max agrees. She lets out a yawn that makes her wonder how long she’s been asleep. Sleep. Something about that word is giving her hella déjà vu. “It’s something to look forward to.”

She reaches out and grasps Chloe’s hand in her own. The callouses along her palms are just like Max remembers them.

They look ahead to the road stretching into the great beyond.

 

 

Mom and Dad suggest they take her out to eat for dinner, and Max accepts the offer. It’s been a while since she’s gone to any Seattle restaurants. And they want her to be okay so badly. She has to try, for them. This is why she slides on a nice long-sleeved shirt she left at home, a deep blue with pearl white trim. She puts on slacks instead of jeans, another item of clothing she never brought to Blackwell with her. She needs to be the daughter that never left for Arcadia Bay. She needs to be the daughter that doesn’t know how shit the world can be.

When they’re sitting by the front, waiting to be seated for their meal, Max considers checking her phone. Kate could have called. Warren could have texted. Someone might need her. But her parents need her more right now. She has to focus on that. Max instead turns to Mom and asks her about work, provoking a smile and a new conversation.

She doesn’t check her phone, and she feels intensely guilty about it.

They finally wave the family over to a small booth against the wall. She sits across from her parents, setting her bag next to her on the seat.

“Ah, this is nice, isn’t it, Max?” Her dad prompts.

Max nods awkwardly. “Uh, yeah… Really nice.”

They haven’t been here before, at least not with Max, so it’s a new experience. The room may be large and spacious, but it feels cramped. There’s rows and columns of booths and tables and chairs. The spaces between them all look too narrow to be convenient for the servers, which makes her wonder how well they’re tipped. She feels around her pocket for some extra coinage. The wall space above the booths are covered in mirrors, reflecting back different angles of the room, making the area look even more claustrophobic.

At least there’s candlelight. Small mercies.

“So,” and there’s a pause there, like trying to calculate what is least likely to make Max cry, “I’m sure Arcadia Bay has changed a lot since you were thirteen.”

Max can’t help but think the pause said more than what he actually said.

“Yes and no,” Max answers. “Joyce’s diner is still there. Blackwell’s still there. And a lot of the people are still there.” _Because of me letting Chloe die_ , she doesn’t say. This needs to be proper dinner conversation. “But it feels so different nowadays.”

“I bet,” Mom says, and the parents exchange a meaningful look. Max considers what might be on their mind. Are they thinking of Chloe’s death? Are they thinking of Jefferson? The Prescotts?

“A lot has happened,” Max hints, and it’s hard to dance around the subject like this. Max was never great at dancing. She took a couple classes, and the instructors all said that she has four left feet, one for each limb. “But I think Arcadia Bay is starting to heal.”

But they want the daughter who didn’t learn to hate the world, she reminds herself. They want the daughter who got overwritten so many times that Max can’t even recognize her anymore. So dance around it she will, until this night is over with.

Mom reaches over and places her hand over Max’s. “That’s a nice thought, Max. I really hope you’re right.”

But no one at the table thinks Max is right, not even Max. The things that happened in Arcadia Bay don’t just wash away with the tide. Things like murder, kidnapping, assault, cover-ups, all mark a place. It’s a scorch mark on the map that never goes away. There’ll be documentaries about it in the years to come. Books and exposés and conspiracy theories.

And none of them will mention a girl with blue hair and the photography nerd who loved her.

There’s a lull in the conversation, as the little white lies they tell themselves sink in.

“So, that’s passed,” her dad brings up, and Max feels the dread within her accumulate, “What’s _next_ for you? If you could decide.”

“Well,” Max begins, fingers fidgeting with her cloth napkin.

“Oh, we’ve just been hitting the road lately, so we’ve been hashing it out in the car,” a familiar voice says. “We were gonna head to LA, but Max wanted to swing by. We’ll probably leave for California in a week or so.”

Max’s eyes widen, and her hands start to tremble.

“Oh!” Mom clasps her hands so excitedly it almost passes for a clap. “How lovely. You must be so excited.”

Max will not look next to her. She won’t. She’s not there. She _can’t be_.

“Yeah, real exciting,” Chloe agrees, “we were actually thinking that maybe we could… I don’t know, move down there if we can get a place. Max could graduate from one of those LA schools, and I could get a job or…”  

Half-formed tears sting at Max’s eyes, and it’s all she can do to not break down. Chloe is not there. Chloe is not next to her. Chloe is not having dinner with the Caulfields.

Chloe is _dead_.

Her breathing hitches, and it’s to the point she wouldn’t be shocked if her heart gives out, from all the stress she’s been under for so long. Max’s body is still shaking, and its stomach feels so, so heavy.

“Max, honey, are you okay? I understand if you’re nervous,” Mom asks, suddenly. “I know how hard it is to get out of your comfort zone. We’re so proud of you.” Those words sound so, so… _wrong_.

Max’s jaw drops. “W-what?” She manages to choke out.

Her parents look at each other, shooting one another a look of bewilderment. “What we mean is…” And Dad pauses, with that same calculation, “We’re glad you signed up for the play and decided to tell us about it. It’s a big step for you.”

Max can only nod in reply, the room around her starting to spin.

“When that dear Kate Marsh contacted us in November, we were so worried,” Mom says, but it’s just one ear and out the other. Max just picks up the words, “Kate” and “November” and “worried.” “But now we know you’re on the right track.”

“Not that you were on the _wrong_ track,” Dad corrects, “After all, you went through so much. It’s only expected that…”

Max keeps trying to focus in on the conversation, but she’s getting dizzier by the moment and her stomach feels like it weighs enough to donate blood. It gets to point that they’re all just sounds smushed together, and she can’t even grasp at them.

Also, she might be imagining it, but the room’s gotten so cold and, yet, so hot. She can’t help shivering and sweating, and, when her hand touches the back of her neck, she can feel the warm perspiration.

This is such a strange restaurant, she can’t help but think, where cold is hot and hot is cold.

“ _Max?_ ” Mom says, as if she’s said it too many times. “Did you decide on something to drink?”

And now Max sees their server, a pimple-faced young man with a little notepad, as well as her parents, all staring at her. They all look worried, like Max was alright and now suddenly she’s not. Like she’s ever been alright.

“Miss, are you oka-”

Max feels more than sees her throw up on the waiter, stomach pumping her forward and causing her to double over as bile expels from her mouth.

After apologizing to the poor guy, they take Max home.

 

 

For the next few days, they treat her like an invalid. She’s their precious baby to protect, to bundle up in blankets and shield from the world. And, of course, they’re always hovering. When Mom has to leave the room, either Dad is there or he finds some reason to be. And when Dad leaves, it’s the same situation with Mom. Vice versa. Or is it versa vice? Honestly, she doesn’t remember.

Try as she might, Max can’t blame them. It worked for the first eighteen years of her life, and it’s not like her current state is really evidence that letting her out on her own helped at all. And why shouldn’t treat her like a child? She still dresses like one. She still complains like one.

Maybe Chloe had a point about her needing to make a change in her life.

 _Oh, Chloe_ , she can’t help but think. What was that in the restaurant? Was she hallucinating?

She’s not sure if it’s an episode or… an _episode_. Her powers may be unusable, but that doesn’t mean they can’t still have lingering side-effects.

Max feels a stab of anger. _Thanks, Universe, you’re such a big help_. Giving time traveling powers to a teen sure worked out for the best.

“Max,” Mom says, “Let’s take your temperature again.”

“Mom,” She insists, “It wasn’t over ninety-nine the last twenty times we took it, and it probably won’t be now. I told you, I’m okay.”

“You haven’t vomited since you were thirteen, Maxine…” She sounds so sad. Max just can’t take how desperate they are. She has to do something to settle their fears.

“I drank some, like, milk before we went to the restaurant. I’m sure it was… spoiled or something. That’s probably why I threw up. I’m not sick,” Max says, reaching to put her hand over hers. “I’m okay, Mom. It’s great that you care, but I’m _okay_.”

“We’ve missed you so much, honey,” Mom says, placing her other hand over Max’s. Mom’s hands team up to give her hand a squeeze. “And we’ve been so worried.”

“I know,” Max says.

Even though she said she’s fine, she spends the next few days after that in bed, too. And the next few. And the next few.

 

 

Max starts sorting her dreams into Chloe Dreams and Not-Chloe Dreams.

When she spots the familiar blue butterfly, she decides it’s a Not-Chloe Dream. She follows the butterfly down the sidewalk, and, as she looks around, she realizes this is Arcadia Bay. The butterfly lands on a truck parked in front of the Two Whales diner. When she reaches it, the insect flies off once more.

She follows it to the lighthouse. She thinks she hears her name, but soon she forgets whatever she heard. Right there by the edge is a flash of blue. Transfixed, Max can’t help but run to it.

“Max,” she hears, and, when she turns around, she’s face to face with her mirror image. “Miss me?” Max gives Max a cruel grin.

Next, all she knows is that she’s falling off the cliff.

 

 

“Max! Sweetie!” Mom is shouting, and Max is being shaken from her bed. Each shake drags her out of the deep, but its tendrils keep digging into her. “Please, Max, don’t _do_ this!”

Max eyes finally open to her mom’s face, marked with forehead creases. It occurs to her that she looks like a woman in her forties. All Crow’s feet and worry lines. When did Mom age? She hadn’t even noticed it happen.  

Her eyes start to close when she’s abruptly shaken again.

“W-what? Mom?” Max mumbles. “What is it?”

Her fingers dig into her shoulders. “Max, you were screaming in your sleep. What kind of _nightmare_ was this?!”

Max still feels so heavy her head starts to sag, her lids start to fall. She can’t even process the words spoken. It’s just sounds to her, sounds trying to block her from her rest.

“No, you are _not_ going back to sleep,” Mom states firmly, giving her yet another shake. “You’ve already slept far too long.”

“Five more minutes,” She mumbles. “Or- or coffee.”

Her mom sighs and forces her to sit up. “I’ll get you coffee if you can stay awake for five whole minutes.”

Max nods, but, ultimately, she falls back to sleep.

 

 

There’s inky blackness all around her. And Max keeps looking this way and that, but there’s no way to tell where she’s going. So she just goes straight ahead, with a fervor that she can’t comprehend. She just knows she desperately needs to keep going.

When she finally sees something else in the vicinity, she quickens her pace until she realizes it’s her. It’s Max but not Max. She’s hunched over on the closest thing to a floor this void has, and she’s chuckling under her breath. Max reaches out to touch the hunched Max’s back, curious what she finds so funny.

As she moves, she sees what the other Max has in her hands.

The blue butterfly weakly flaps its wings before falling back down.

And the hunched Max just laughs and laughs as she picks at it. The butterfly suffers, and Max laughs. _She_ laughs.

Max recoils at the sight and tries to push the other Max away from the insect, but it’s no use. “Stop it! _Stop!_ You’re hurting her! She never-”

“Deserved this?” She sneers, and for a moment it almost looks like _Victoria’s_ sneer, turning to face herself. “What about me? The Maxes you left behind?”

Max takes a step back. “Y-you can’t guilt trip me anymore. I did what you _said_.”

“Oho, you have some nerve talking about what I _can’t_ do.” Max advances towards Max. “You know what I can’t do?”

“Get back.” Desperation creeps into Max’s voice, but she just keeps getting closer and closer. “Get _back!_ ”

“Bzzt! Wrong answer! The answer was, “anything!” We would have also accepted “breathing,” “graduating high school,” “taking another photo ever again,” and the good ‘ole classic “ _living._ ”” Suddenly, her wrists are jerked by the other Max, and she can’t get out of her grip. “You _left_ me and Victoria to die.” She pulls her close enough to kiss. “All for that punk ass bitch Chloe. Why don’t I matter to you, Maxine? How come you only care about her?”

“P-please,” Max begs, and she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for. “I- I couldn’t have known, just… Please stop…” The other Max leans in and

just as their lips are about to touch, Max wakes up.

 

 

Max is in the kitchen now, having finally gotten up at noon after falling in and out of sleep.

She pokes at the hash browns with her fork. It’s one of those frozen foods that you get from the supermarket in a bag and cook at home, which is fine, frankly. Hash browns are hash browns, as far as Max is concerned. That’s not why she’s playing with her food instead of eating it. She hasn’t had much of an appetite this past month and a half. She can’t put a finger on the why, exactly, but it probably goes back to Chloe. Or her powers.

But, really, she can’t separate her powers from Chloe. It started and ended with Chloe. That week with Chloe started and ended with her powers. It’s that chicken or the egg thing. What came first? No one’s sure, but you can’t have one without the other.

In the end, it’s all the same.

“Max, aren’t you going to eat?” Dad passes by on his way to the fridge.

“I’ll eat,” She says.

“You don’t look like you’re going to eat,” He says as he grabs an apple from a drawer in the fridge.

“I’ll eat,” She insists.

“Mmm.” She hears the crisp sound of him taking a bite.

Her eyes search the table for a distraction. There’s her mom’s phone, Max’s camera, a few unopened envelopes, a copy of Reader’s Digest, and-

“Since when did you guys read cooking magazines?” Max asks, feeling like she must be missing something. Her parents don’t cook. They get takeout or buy packages of frozen foods from the supermarket and heat them in the microwave or, if they’re feeling fancy, the oven. Occasionally, they might maybe prepare very simple meals that are practically not even meals at all. That’s the extent of their cooking skills.

Which, again, is fine. Not all parents need to be Joyce Price.

“Over the last couple months, we… We decided to check out some recipes,” He answers, and it sounds like he’s trying hard to sound casual. “We actually made those hash browns you’re eating from scratch.”

That knocks the wind out of her. “Oh.”

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it,” He says, suddenly, and it breaks her heart.

“No, no, I’m just…” Max tries to think of something. “Thinking.” Yes, Max is so very smart. _Thinking_. How genius.

A great excuse for someone who thinks she’s just being polite. A great excuse for your Dad who’s trying so hard to make everything good for you. _I’m so full of shit_.

“I’m sorry,” She says, finally.

“Oh, honey, you have nothing to be sorry for,” He rubs at her back, that comforting way he always does when she’s sad and needs her dad.

“You don’t have to cook for me, Dad,” She says, turning in her chair to look at him, “You and Mom know that, right? I don’t expect that of you guys. I love you no matter what.”

“I know, sweetie,” He says, even though she doesn’t think he really _does_ know, and that’s that.

Max eats the hash browns.

 

 

 

It’s Christmas Eve by the time she uses her camera again.

She felt the same as she had before that morning: tired, empty, lazy. Nothing was different, except for the fact she looked outside and saw it was snowing outside instead of raining like usual. They live in Seattle, which is by the coast, so of course it’s not known for its snow, but it was still snowing that day. And Max had looked at the sliding door leading to the backyard, out to the snowfall.

“Mom,” She had asked, “Could I… go into the backyard?”

And Mom perked up. “Put on a coat, dear! It’s hot chocolate weather out there.” Max nearly broke at how cheerful her mom tried to seem, like Max was made of glass. But she didn’t. Instead, she smiled.

“Okay,” Max had said with her coat in hand, and she grabbed her camera, before exiting the sliding door and closing it shut behind her.

She buttoned each button, eager to be insulated from the cold, as she looked up at the sky.

And she’s here, and it’s beautiful. A blue and grey and white little wonderland.

Max thinks, then, that she’s so lucky to be alive. She’s so lucky to have survived October. She survived her powers and Jefferson and Chloe and the dreams and the insidious voice at the back of her head that tells her she _shouldn’t_ be that lucky.

To spite that voice, she takes a step from the door behind her. Then, another, and another.

A piece of snow hits her cheek, and she closes her eyes with a grin. _Take a good look. I’m living, and you can’t stop me._ When she opens them, she sees the fence, covered in snow.

She lifts the camera and hears the little click as she snaps the shot. Eagerly, Max takes the photo out and looks at it. Its composition is poor, and it’s kind of blurry. She’d probably get rejected if she tried to apply to the LACMA with this, but she loves it.

She turns toward the house, which is coated sheets of ice and layers of snow. She lifts her camera, and she takes the shot.

By the end of the day, she has hot chocolate in her hand and fifteen different shots of her backyard.

 

 

Max doesn’t dream that night, not a Chloe dream or a Not-Chloe dream. After a full week of back-to-back dreams and nightmares, she’s not sure whether she’s sad or relieved.

 

 

The next day, Max and her parents sit around the tree and spend some good, old family time together. And when they get bored of that, they turn on the television and watch Christmas specials.

“If I were Rudolph, I think I’d leave,” Dad says, in the middle of their marathon, as the claymation Rudolph saves Christmas. “Leave ‘em all behind.”

“Really?” Mom asks, leaning forward on the sofa. “But isn’t he supposed to work for Santa?” She smiles playfully. “What about your duty, Mr. Reindeer?”

“Ha, duty to people who make it a _hostile_ work environment?” He asks her, arms gesturing toward the TV. “Besides, why stick your neck out for a ton of people who don’t care about you? It’s great that he saved Christmas and all, but why bother?”

Max cuts in, “Because he’s the only one who can.”

“You sound so sure, Max,” Dad says, then he chuckles. “Do you have any antlers you’re hiding under that hat?”

She reaches to touch the Santa hat on her head with a coy smile. “Maybe.”

He settles into the sofa backrest with a sigh. “Well, at least you’ll never have to make a decision like that.”

Max has to cough to cover up her laughter.

 

 

 

Max goes to the sliding door in the evening, just standing on the precipice. She’s always like that, isn’t she? Not quite in one world or the other. And she watches.

This time she’s watching Chloe and her play in the snow-drenched backyard.

Outside Max balls up some snow and throws it across the yard. It hits Chloe in the neck, and Max can see Chloe shiver from the contact.

Max takes a step closer to the door.

Chloe comes back with a vengeance, throwing snow ball after snow ball. But Outside Max gives as good as she receives, practically turning into a snowball-making machine because _damn right_ Max Caulfield won’t go down without a fight. All the while, the snow falls all around them, wet and white and cold. It gets into their hair and clothes as they throw ball after ball of snow.  And they’re laughing.

Max can’t hear them, but she knows they’re laughing. And she takes another step, close enough that her breath brushes against the glass of the door.

Outside Max tries to push Chloe, but then Chloe tackles her and presses a bit of snow into Max’s face. Max is laughing and pulls Chloe in for a cold kiss in their winter wonderland. A winter wonderland of blue and grey and white.

Inside, Max presses a hand against the glass, and she’s laughing, too. And crying. But she’s laughing, too.

 

 

 

When Max finally checks her phone, she scrolls through some kind messages from Dana and Kate. Alyssa asks what the winter break homework is for English. Warren also texts her, something short with a Youtube video attachment. It’s one of those funny videos that are so bottom of the barrel that they’re sort of gross, but Max finds herself laughing anyway. No one sent her anything urgent, but Max is glad she checked. It’s nice to know that people care.

What surprises her is the line: Victoria Chase, Incoming. 1/4/2014, 5:03 PM.

Max frowns. She scrolls down through the various missed calls she received over the semester, from her Mom or Kate or Chloe. But then she finds herself scrolling back up to Victoria.

Victoria Chase called her, she thinks like it’s a revelation.

She finds it hard to picture Victoria bothering with a phone call, especially her calling Max specifically.

It has to be important.

Max goes to the contacts page, and she does the unthinkable. She calls Victoria fucking Chase.

The steady dial tone makes her nervous, and she finds herself counting every iteration. _Five, six, seven, eight…_

She finally picks up. “What is it?” Victoria sounds tired. Not just got out of bed tired, but a deep kind of tired, like the exhaustion has seeped into her bones. Max can relate to that a bit.

“You called me, Victoria,” Max starts.

Victoria replies, and Max swears she can hear the eye roll, “Did I?”

“January 4th, 5:03 PM,” Max repeats flatly.

There’s a long pause and then, “Must have been a butt dial, Max. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You sure?” Max lets her head hit the wall behind her, gaze darting to the ceiling.

“No, I had some sweet nothings to _whisper_ in your ear that just couldn’t wait,” Victoria retorts. “Yes, I’m fucking _sure_.”

“Okay, just checking,” Max says, an edge creeping into her tone, “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

When she’s met with silence on the other end, Max tries for small talk instead of hanging up because, for a moment, she forgets this is Victoria Chase. “Are you enjoying vacation from school? ‘Tis the season and all that…”

“You’re being your awkward, tryhard self.” Victoria sounds suspicious. “Does this mean you’re rejoining the world of the living?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” She says.

“You should. Last I saw you, you were stumbling around school in zombie mode,” Victoria tells her. “Don’t do that shit. It scares people.”

Max thinks of perfume and bathroom tiles. “I… scared you?”  The idea sounds comical, or it would if Max hadn’t actually seen Victoria scared in another timeline. That in mind, it just sounds like a reality check.

“Everything about you scares me,” Victoria says, voice dripping with disdain, and Max can’t tell whether it’s sarcasm or something else entirely. “Get your fucking act together, Max Caulfield. We have a play to put on when we get back.”

“What do you mea-”

Then, before Max can say anything else, Victoria hangs up. Max looks down at the phone in her hand like it’s a five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle.

 

 

By the time Winter Break ends, Max has an array of photos she took in the Seattle winter. One of them, a nice headshot, looks almost Avedon-esque.


	3. Max Loves to Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is some upsetting, potentially triggering material in this chapter. If implications of self-harm and religious imagery are triggers for you, reader discretion is advised.

The morning on the first day of the semester doesn’t feel any different. New semester, new year, new events, new facilities, but it doesn’t feel any different.

Max finds herself lingering at the dorms, staring at the note on her dresser titled _New Year’s Resolutions_. She’d made it, not on New Year’s, but a day or so after it. They still count, even if they’re not made on New Year’s. They’re still going to be _broken_ , even if they’re not made on New Year’s. It’s cynical to think so, but it seems like New Year resolutions are made to be broken. People make them to tell themselves it’s going to be different now. They make them because they have a clean slate in front of them, and they want to be worth that clean slate.

In a way, it’s not that different from the rewind. When she goes back in time, it’s getting the slate wiped clean.

Now that she doesn’t have it, she knows she has to make it count.

So, the first resolution she wrote the day after New Year’s was, _Eat Healthier_. Because she really hadn’t been taking care of herself since October, or of anything, really. Max and post-October and the word _care_ do not belong in the same sentence. She can’t exactly summon the fucks to give anymore, but she can start with better choices at lunchtime. It’s low-risk, high-reward.

The second resolution was, _Make Dream Journal_. After all the weird dreams and visions, that one is self-explanatory. It’s a little new-age for her tastes, but it’s not like she wants to see a counselor about her issues so it’s something to do in the meantime.

And the third, final resolution was, _Help Friends_. Now, this one is going to be tricky without the powers over time and space, but Max thinks that she owes it to them, after having been stuck in a rut for so long. Kate especially deserves a little help from time to time.

She repeats the resolutions under her breath like a mantra (“ _Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends,”_ “ _Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends,” “Eat Healthy…”_ ), and she leaves with those words on her lips.

 

 

When Max enters the hallways of the main building, she sees a crowd of students near the stairs pushing and shoving to get to whatever’s on the wall. She shifts uncomfortably at the sight. There’s no reason to get so physical over a piece of paper.

It doesn’t occur to her why they’re so impassioned until Kate throws herself at Max, wrapping her arms around her, and Max stumbles back, barely able to handle Kate’s modest weight. But she catches her, and the sound she hears from Kate is laughter.

 _Kate Marsh is laughing_ , Max realizes with no small surprise.

“Max! I got in!” Kate squeals, and it’s the happiest Max has ever seen her. The happiest she probably will ever see her. “I got a part in the plaaaay!”

“Kate,” Max manages, “You’re crushing me.”

“Oh,” Kate says, and she releases her, smiling from ear to ear. “Sorry, Max.”

Max can’t help but grin, hands still on Kate’s sides. “Don’t be sorry, Kate. I- I’m so happy for you. What did you get?”

“You’re looking at Blackwell’s next Ophelia,” She says with pride, and Max thinks that, for a moment, she’s the brightest flame in the world. Bright and blazing and free. No wonder Jefferson wanted to extinguish her. How could his photos compare to her smile?

“That’s great,” Max says, “I have no idea who that is, but that’s great.”

Kate grabs her hand and leads her through the masses to the casting lists. “She’s Hamlet’s girlfriend. Let’s just say their relationship doesn’t end well.” When they get to the sheets of paper on the wall, they stop in their tracks. Max frowns.

“ _Max_ , you’re props master!” Kate gives Max a light, playful push amongst the rest of the crowd’s hard shoves. “Congratulations.”

But Max isn’t looking at the tech crew assignments. Her eyes are stuck on the cast list, specifically one name at the top of the cast list.

“Victoria Chase is Hamlet,” Max reads, and she pauses, confused. “Wait, isn’t Hamlet supposed to be a guy?”

They pull away from the crowd, settling at the wall next to them. Max’s arms are crossed over her chest, and Kate agrees with her. “I don’t get it, either. Why Victoria?”

Juliet glides in with her two cents. “It’s not unheard of to cast women in male roles for plays,” She explains. “Usually, there’s more girls than guys in the cast, and it’s not like there’s a lot of meaty female roles to begin with.”

And, suddenly, Warren is there too, and Dana. Max hadn’t even noticed them come over.

“Didn’t Rachel Amber play a male lead a few years ago in The Tempest?” Warren points out, which catches Max’s attention. Former plays are one thing, but Rachel Amber? What can she say, old habits die hard. Her hands fall to her sides as she leans in.

Dana shakes her head. “No, they made Prospero a female role for her, after she argued that Prospero being a powerful, controlling _mother_ would be more interesting.”

“She isn’t _wrong_ ,” Juliet says before correcting herself. “Wasn’t… Wasn’t wrong.” Rachel was such a huge presence at Blackwell, even after death. It’s a wonder whether anyone would get used to the fact she was murdered. But Max notices that the mood around her has been different since the Jefferson case. Disappearance is vague, could be a runaway or kidnap for ransom. Murder is a concrete, _Rachel no longer is_.

But there’s the play, _The Tempest_. Chloe never told Max about any of that. “Rachel played Prospero?”

“Well, Prosper _a_ , but yeah,” Juliet tells her, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t change anything.

She spent so many hours of her time puzzling over Rachel Amber’s disappearance and why the world had to take her away so young, take her away from _Chloe_ , but, at the end of the day, she knows jack shit about her.

There’s knowing how she died, and then there’s knowing how she lived.

 

 

 

Max’s first Chloe Dream of the semester starts with them on a couch in a small apartment. They’re watching reruns of Fresh Prince on one of the thirty channels on the cable plan. The room is dim, only lit thanks to the small television across from them.

Max reaches out into the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, next to the bottle of red wine they opened a day ago, and Chloe swats her hand away.

“Max, remember your New Year’s resolution?” Chloe reminds her.

“It’s just a couple pieces of popcorn,” Max tries.

“Buttered popcorn,” Chloe corrects, pointing at her with an oily index finger, “with enough cholesterol to kill a cow from heart disease.” She doesn’t see the irony, or, if she does, she thinks it’s funny from that grin on her face. And it is funny, isn’t it? Just a little.

Max finds herself laughing. “Look at you, questioning my life choices.” She reaches over to lick the buttery goodness off of Chloe’s finger because she’s absolutely _shameless_ ly in love with this girl and popcorn.

“Hey, I’d never question your choices,” Chloe claims, and Max believes her.

Max pulls her in for a kiss, and Chloe kisses back, and Max wants to cry from how affectionate it is. One of Chloe’s hands rest at Max’s cheek, the gentlest caress she’s ever had, the other running up and down her spine. They introduce tongue, like they’ve been doing lately. Chloe tastes like popcorn and pepsi-cola. Max would wonder how _she_ tastes like, if she has even a thought to spare that isn’t Chloe’s lips or Chloe’s body or Chloe’s soul.  

They pull away, only to start kissing again mere moments later. Oh, god, they are shameless.

“Hey, guys, could you wash your plates in the si-” Chloe and Max stop and look at her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude on your love nest.”

“It’s fine, Steph,” Max says without even thinking. Which is weird, since Max has never met this girl in her entire life.

“Yeah, it’s your apartment and all,” Chloe points out. “And, _yeah_ , I should… probably get on that.”

“Thanks again for letting us stay here,” She finds herself saying, as Chloe gets up to do the dishes. “It means a lot, and… and… I’ll get my parents to send you some rent money. It’s the least I can do.”

“No, forget about it. I’m always happy to help an old friend,” Steph says, “Besides, aren’t I _obligated_ to help victims of an ecological disaster? I’m shocked you guys survived. That storm was, like… _unprecedented_.”

The guilt is suddenly too much, and she has to grab the bottle of wine. “Yeah, it was… terrifying.” Max takes a big gulp, the alcohol going down with a pleasant, familiar burn.

“Shit, Max,” Steph grabs the bottle and sits down with her, “Easy on the wine.”

 

 

 

When Max gets up, she writes down the details of the dream, and she puzzles over Steph. In dreams, people don’t just show up. Faces are faces you’ve seen before. Names are from movies or old friends or baby name websites. She must have met this girl before, but, if she had, she can’t remember when.

She closes the dream journal with a sigh and goes to her main journal. She looks way back, to the beginning, but there’s no Steph. She doesn’t have the time to figure out what this means.

A phrase from the dream comes back to her, _old friend_. Max certainly doesn’t remember her, and Chloe never mentioned a Steph in their final week together. She sighs. This is too much for the morning.

Max finally leaves it and gets ready for the day.

 

 

 

The production of Hamlet has its first meeting that day, and Max sits herself between Kate and Warren in the rows of fold-up chairs inside the rec room.

“Hamlet is ultimately a tale of mortality,” Mr. Keaton tells them, “Yes, it’s a revenge story, and, yes, there’s a whole host of elements relating to the political realm. But it’s ultimately about the meaning of life, the meaning of death, and the uncertainty of it all. Do our actions in this world truly make a mark? Does it matter _how_ we commit said actions? Do we have a soul, and, if so, can we judge one’s actions from that soul? Can these souls come to us on this earthly plane past death itself?”

“Will this lecture end before we die of boredom?” Someone mutters under their breath, which elicits a few chuckles from the audience.

Mr. Keaton, if he hears the laughter, doesn’t give them any notice. He spreads out his arms, and he’s every bit the drama teacher as he continues. “Finally, what are the ultimate consequences to our actions? As you should probably know by now, Hamlet is one of Shakespeare’s many, many tragedies. Actors and actresses, many of your characters will perish during the course of this production, but it is your job to decide how they lived.”

Something itches at the back of Max’s head. Like something she forgot.

It feels important.

 

 

“Say what, um, is Horatio there?”

“A piece of him.”

They’re going over lines in the opening scenes when Max first finds herself of use.

Zach pauses. “Uh, Props Guy? Could you get us the cups?”

Max goes over to the cardboard boxes of supplies, eager to finally have something to do during these rehearsals. “Uh, the silvery ones or the clear ones?” Both kinds look really fancy, but she’s not sure which is appropriate. She’s still new at this.

Someone shouts out, “Silver!”

She grabs a few silver cups and practically runs back to the actors’ space. She has to stop a moment when she hears a clattering sound, so she can pick up the stray cup, which makes her look rather silly. But she makes it back in one piece and hands them the silver-painted cups.

They don’t say, _thank you_. But that doesn’t matter.

Max smiles, something like hope blooming in her chest. “Always happy to help.”

 

 

The first hint doesn’t start until later, when she sees Kate by herself, looking at nothing. Max waves, but Kate looks right through her.

 

 

Chloe watches Max climb into their sleeping bag. Max burrows her head into the crook of Chloe’s neck, breathing her in. Chloe shifts her position to wrap an arm around her.

They stay like that, and Max counts the ticking of the wall clock like she’s waiting for something.

She thinks she’s been waiting for something for a long time, but she doesn’t know what it is.

Her head turns to kiss Chloe’s neck. There’s no response, so she kisses her again. Chloe doesn’t do anything still, even when Max tries to kiss her on the lips. Chloe’s alive, thank goodness; she can feel her breath on her lips and the rise and fall of her chest. But she’s unmoving, and Max can feel those walls build and build around her. Chloe is a castle, and Max’s hands are invaders.

Should she try catapults next? A false truce under the careful guise of diplomacy?

Finally, Max gives up and turns in their shared sleeping bag, her back to Chloe. She thinks then that her love must be the scariest thing in the world.

 

 

When Max wakes up, she keeps looking at the dream journal, thinking over the dream in dread. The dread of a thousand invasions made up of emotional walls and roaming hands.

_Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends._

Maybe, just this once, she could forego the journal.

_Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends._

But, then again, then again she walks over and starts writing.

 

 

In their Photography class, Max catches Victoria looking at what was once Nathan’s seat, now empty. And she can’t believe she’s never thought about it before. Victoria didn’t _appear_ affected by Nathan and Jefferson’s absence or Rachel Amber’s murder or anything, so Max never considered that she was. But maybe she is, and Max just never noticed. It’s not like she was paying attention to Victoria Chase, of all people, after the storm that never was.

Victoria catches Max catching her looking, which, as confusing as it sounds, just amounts to Victoria noticing Max being a creep and tossing Max the most critical look she can muster. If it’s supposed to intimidate her, it doesn’t do the job, but Max finds herself looking down at her notebook anyways.

There, she writes idly, _Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends._

Is it a loophole if Victoria is only her friend in an alternate timeline?

She wrote a few one-sentence-long goals, but maybe she should have wrote a contract instead. That could be why so many people break their resolutions: they just phrase it so vaguely in these short little soundbites that they could argue nearly anything to follow that resolution. If she wants to help Victoria, then she’s going by one set of logic. If she doesn’t, then she goes by another. Either way, it still fits within the confines of the resolution.

No wonder lawyers earn so much money and infamy. This shit is hard.

All throughout the class period, she mouths the words to her resolutions. It’s a song without a melody that she can’t get out of her head.

 

 

When Max asks Victoria if she doesn’t mind her taking photos of them rehearsing, Victoria shrugs and rolls her eyes. “If you can manage a shot without motion blur,” Victoria answers reluctantly. But Max thinks she means to say something else.

Max kneels across from them as they start.

Victoria reads Logan’s line, “The hand more instrumental to the mouth, than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.” She turns her head to Taylor then. “What wouldst thou have, Laertes?”

“My… dread lord, your leave and your favor to return to France,” Taylor reads, voice stilted and uncertain. “From when willingly I came to Denmark-”

Kate corrects her. “It’s _whence_ , Taylor. You’re saying you left France for Denmark and want to go back.”

“Hey, don’t interrupt my scene,” Taylor shoots back. She returns to the script. “To show my duty in your coronation… yet now, I must confess? That duty done. My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France and… Bow them to your gracious leave.” She looks down at the script again. “And, uh, pardon.”

“Laertes is saying that he came to Denmark for the king’s recent coronation and, now, he’s asking the king’s leave to go back to France,” Kate explains. “If you want, I can tutor you on how to read Shakespeare. I think I could help a lot…”

“Fuck off, Kate,” Victoria replies, mouth twisting into a frown.

“Yeah, like,” Courtney agrees, “Who even asked you anyways?”

Kate starts to curl in on herself, her posture slacking and her arms folding against her chest. She looks like she wants to disappear. Maybe Kate should have been the one given superpowers. She sure could use them, Max thinks.

“No one cares what you think,” Taylor adds, invading Kate’s personal space.

Max is about to intervene when Victoria sighs and gestures to the script in her hand.

“Forget it,” Victoria tells them, “We’re starting from the top.”

Max catches the reflection of her face in the lens. She frowns as she takes a good look at herself, at the other Max.

Something’s… off.

“Were we at Line 250 or Line 260?” Courtney asks.

Did her reflection just wink at her?

“Fuck if I know,” Taylor mutters, amidst the sound of ruffling papers.

Max blinks then, only to find her face moving with her once more. Was she just imagining it?

Victoria snaps her fingers. “ _Hey!_ Message from Earth, astro- _nut_.” Another snap, and Max looks up from the camera. She gets right up in Max’s face, but not enough to smell her perfume this time. “Who gave you permission to space out?”

 _Sorry if I find your behavior boring, Victoria_ , Max wants to say, _Not everyone is entertained by bullying_.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she looks to Kate first, who shakes her head.

Max’s cheek tenses, and she can feel her lip twitch. “Let’s just get this over with.”

 

 

Kate and Max’s teatime takes place in Kate’s dorm the next day. They like to change it up from time to time. Sometimes it’s outside, sometimes it’s in a classroom, sometimes it’s in the cafeteria, and sometimes it’s in one of their dorm rooms, like this day. It gives it a more intimate feeling, like they’re old friends having a visit.

“The way they treat you is terrible,” Max says when the subject turns to the production. “I should go to Mr. Keaton.”

“Max, no,” Kate tells her. “You know tattling just makes things worse.”

She picks up her cup and takes a sip. This one is Earl Grey. It’s bitter and tart on her tongue, and, even though Max used to dislike it, she’s gotten a taste for it lately. “Kate, I can’t just stand by and let this happen. I want to _help_.”

“You can help by just being here, for me,” Kate says before gesturing to her dorm room. “Like this.”

“If you say so,” Max replies.

“I’m not that fragile, you know,” and she dips a biscuit into her tea before taking a bite. “It’s not like my life is over.”

“Yeah.” Max knows that much, at least. “You’re alive.”

 

 

It happens again a couple days later, during an afternoon rehearsal.

Max is carrying a box of props donated to them by the University of Oregon, but it’s not big enough that her view is obstructed. Stella had asked her to set the box down in storage. And, on the horizon between the box and everything else, she sees Courtney and Taylor snickering to each other. Max’s eyes narrow at the sight.

She walks around them to get to the storage room. There’s a weight lifted from her shoulders as she sets down the box. It’s heavier than it looks, this box of plastic wonders.

When she leaves the room is when she sees it.

Kate is walking toward the storage room, and, just as she’s about to pass Courtney, the girl sticks her leg out. Kate trips over the foot, landing stomach-first on the ground.

That’s when Max notices Victoria has joined them.

But that’s neither here nor there. She runs to Kate, immediately checking to see she’s okay. Max crouches down in front of her and starts to pull her up. The sleeves on Kate’s cardigan ride up her arms, exposing her bare skin.

There, on Kate’s forearm, are long thin slashes across the veins.

Max’s heart stops.

Some look dulled by time, barely visible. Others look reddened and _recent_.

“Kate,” She breathes, looking up at Kate’s face. Then, back down at the scars. These scars are a car crash in the big city, Max thinks. You can’t look away, even though it’s awful. Maybe _because_ it’s awful. “Oh, Kate…”

Kate jerks her arm from Max’s grip. “Don’t worry about it, Max. I’m fine,” She mumbles, and she leaves Max crouching on the floor, who’s watching her friend leave and feeling like The End of the World is a promise rather than a party. 

This isn’t what she saved Arcadia Bay for. This isn’t what she let Chloe die for.

Max looks back at Victoria and her lackeys. They’re laughing. No, a better word would be _cackling_. Like hyenas. All three of them. They saw Kate’s pain and cackled. She thinks back to the resolutions. _Eat Healthy, Dream Journal, Help Friends._

No, Victoria is not a friend, and Max is not going to help her. The girl is beyond all help.

 

 

 

Max is running down the hallways. “Kate? _Kate!_ ” All she can think of is Kate rushing to the top of the dormitory building, Kate crying and wanting to die, Kate jumping off the ledge. Kate needs her. She just knows it.

Max tries to follow her up the staircase, but her legs feel heavy and sore. “Kate, please! Not again!” She tries to shout, but only eerie silence follows. “K-Kate!”

A blue butterfly flies around her, frantically flapping its wings. But Max ignores it as she makes her way up the final set of stairs. She almost swats it away, but she can’t find it in herself to do it.

She pushes the door open to a dark sky and heavy rain. “Kate?” She tries once more, and this time there’s just a whistle of wind and the pitter patter of rain. She steps out onto the ground slowly, like she’s scared that Kate will run off the edge if Max isn’t careful. Kate needs a friend, not an assailant.

She can only drag in breath when she sees her.

It’s blue, blue, blue, but Max wants to vomit.

There’s a long wooden cross and nailed to it is Kate Marsh. Bright blue liquid oozes from the wounds at her wrists and drips from the corner of her mouth. Her skin is greyed and dirty, and the clothes cloaking her from the rain are wet and torn. Her eyes dull and lifeless. The sky dark and terrible.

Max can’t even will herself to speak.

The blue butterfly lands on one edge of the cross, just above Kate’s wrist.

She wakes up sweating, and she has to bite down the scream that’s brewing in her throat.

 

 

 

Hours pass. Max can’t stop thinking about the nightmare, and she tries to shake it off but that doesn’t work when you’re already shaking. She thinks she’s too warm at first, leading her to shrug off the blankets, but then she feels cold, so very cold.

So she gets up, tries to focus on breathing. In and out. Out and in. In and out. Out and in. She soon finds herself pacing inside her dorm room, one foot after another, circling and circling around. But, when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she stops.

She reaches up and grasps the ends of her hair. It’s past her shoulders now. How did she never notice?

Max swallows at her reflection, and she watches as Other Max swallows too. She looks down, and Other Max looks down too. She puts a hand on the surface, and there’s a twin hand on the other end, pressing at the mirror like it’s a trap. Max certainly feels trapped.

“I’m so sorry,” She says, and she doesn’t even know why she’s saying it. Maybe because she’s not her best self, and maybe she can’t be. Maybe something broke inside her that week in October. Or maybe this was before the storm, before the powers, before Chloe, before everything. Maybe Max was always broken.

She says sorry again, and it feels like a prayer. It feels like repenting. Like forgiveness.  

But then Other Max’s mouth moves on its own. “Sorry’s not good enough.”

And her hands reach out and close around Max’s throat.

 

 

 

She runs out of the dorm room, and she shuts it behind her, panting heavily. She leans against the door like she’s a human barricade. In a way, she is.

That wasn’t a dream, this time. That really happened.

When her heart-rate starts to settle, she lets herself slide down the door to the floor, and she’s still trembling a little as her arms wrap around her bent legs. She rocks herself back and forth, back and forth. Max wants to scream, but her resolution’s to help her friends and how the hell is she going to help them if they’re sleep-deprived?

No, she sits, and she thinks. And she wonders how that felt so real, when it can’t be. There can’t be two Maxes at once, right? They’re two parallel lines, and parallel lines can’t ever meet.

None of this makes any sense. Then again, nothing about her life ever makes sense.

It’s still so late, she can feel it. If it’s five or six in the morning, there would be people starting to get up, like Juliet. Juliet’s a notorious early riser, and she’s had to apologize before for waking everyone up on accident. But there is no one up at this hour, not even Juliet, and the lights in the hall are off. There’s still some light from outside lamps, pouring in through the windows. But it’s only enough to call the hallway dim, not lit.

With that, she decides to get back in her dorm, and she fumbles for the key as she goes to stand, only to realize it’s still in the dorm room. She had left in such a hurry that she didn’t bring it with her. So she reaches out to rewind, only to remember that it’s gone.

She sighs, lightly hitting her forehead against the door. “Idiot.” Now, she’s stuck, and she’s going to have to wait out here until morning.

For a while, she just stands there, before turning to look down the hallway out of boredom. One end of the hall is empty, and it looks kind of creepy all dark like that. She could probably film a horror movie right here, if she had the equipment with her. She’s seen enough of Warren’s favorites to know how to copy them. A little shadow here, a metallic screech there.

Then, she looks down the other end. It looks much the same, except sitting against the wall is Victoria Chase, holding something to her lips and lighting it.

Max squints at the sight. Victoria Chase is smoking on her own at night? Curious, and frankly having nothing else to do, she steps towards her end of the hall.

She walks until she’s right in front of her, and Victoria looks up, and Victoria says nothing.

Max sits next to her on the carpet, and just then she catches the familiar scent of marijuana. It reminds her of Chloe, and she closes her eyes, hoping she can pretend it’s Chloe and Max and nobody else. Because she _needs_ it to be Chloe and Max and nobody else right now. It even works for a hot minute, until Victoria says something.

“You look like you could use one,” and, at that, Max opens her eyes. She turns her head to look at her, and she sees Victoria holding out a blunt. It’s a peace offering, Max realizes.

“Smoking kills,” Max notes, hint of irony in her voice.

Victoria lets out a breath of laughter. No, it’s not _quite_ laughter. It’s halfway to laughter, when you’re too bitter and sad to laugh, so you just let out that sound instead. “Just take the blunt, Caulfield, before I change my mind.”

“You know, you sound like one of those Drug PSAs,” Max points out, but she accepts the blunt. “Those stereotypical cool kids that want you to try drugs because… I don’t know, drugs are cool or something.”

“If you really think I smoke because _it’s cool_ , then you’re a bigger moron than I thought,” Victoria says, pausing to inhale from her blunt.

“That’s why they’re so stupid,” Max replies, holding it out for a light, “They think they know why us teens do the things we do, but they don’t.”

“They _really_ don’t,” Victoria agrees, like that’s an understatement, and there’s another breath of almost laughter. She flicks the lighter open and lets the flame grace the end of Max’s blunt.

Then, they smoke, and it’s quiet. It’s the kind of silence where it’s not awkward because nothing needs to be said. An almost pleasant silence, as if Victoria and Max aren’t who they are. As if they’re just two lost girls having a smoke in the middle of the night. It’s not Chloe and Max and nobody else, but it’s not nothing. Max doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not nothing.

When the sun rises, Max almost doesn’t want to get up, but she does. She stands, and she says, “Leave Kate Marsh alone, if not for her then for my own sanity.”

And Victoria rolls her eyes. “Do you ever get tired of riding on that high horse?”

She’s not sure what she expected.

“No,” Max says, and she storms off like the storm that never was. She puts out the lit end of the blunt before tossing it in the trash, in full view of Victoria Chase.

 

 

Max goes to Mr. Keaton that morning and tells him about the bullying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Chasefield next chapter.


	4. Max Loves Late Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be my last chapter for a couple weeks. Finals are dumb, and whoever invented them should feel ashamed.

It’s **9:30 AM** that Wednesday when Max tells Mr. Keaton about what happened, and it’s **3:30 PM** when she gets out of her last class for the day.

And it’s **3:32 PM** when she sees it.

“You little _snitch_!” It’s Taylor, and she’s lunging at Kate, only held back by, of all people, Victoria Chase. “Why would you do something like this?! What is _wrong_ with you?”

Max heads toward the scene, her grip on her messenger bag tightening and twisting the nylon strap. She has some suspicion this is more than some bullying incident. Now closer, she can see Courtney in tears, wiping at the eyes that seem to say, _I dare you to look at me_. But Max has never been that brave, and she decides not to take her up on that dare, instead shifting her attention to Kate, who’s against the lockers and looking like she’s about to bolt at any minute.

“Kate!” Max says, before looking to Victoria, then Taylor. “What is going on here? What happened?”

Taylor answers, “Your little _friend_ got Courtney booted off of Hamlet!”

“What?” Max startles at that. “What are you talking about?”

Kate finally explains, “They’re saying that I went to Mr. Keaton, but I- I swear to our lord and savior-”

“Don’t give me any of that Teens For Christ bullshit!” Taylor shouts back, finally managing to wrench out of Victoria’s grip and advance on Kate. “Are you happy now that you made Courtney cry? Is it some, like, religious experience for you?”

“Taylor! Step back,” Victoria snaps. “You’re way out of line. That bitch isn’t even worth the energy.”

Max finally intervenes, “Look, if you wanna get pissed off at someone, get pissed off at _me_. I was the one who snitched!” She sees Taylor's expression twist from shock to unbridled rage.

“Seriously, Max?” Taylor says. “What is your _damage_?”

“I didn’t know he was going to cut any of you from the play,” Max says, “I’m sorry! I am, but I didn’t think… I didn’t know it was so important to you guys.”

“Really?” Victoria interjected, sounding more skeptical than angry. “You didn’t know that _Courtney,_ the _President_ of Blackwell’s Shakespeare Club, would care about being in Hamlet?”

“Blackwell has a Shakespeare Club?” Max asks, which just makes Courtney start crying again. “Sorry.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Just as I thought. C’mon, Taylor, let’s go get Courtney cleaned up.”

So they leave her with Kate, but not before Taylor shoots Max one last look of complete and total loathing.

“I can’t believe they went after you like that,” Max exclaims, “like going to a teacher is the worst thing in the world.” But then, she remembers her role in all this. “I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to get you involved like this.” Kate deserves better. “This is all my fault.” So, so much better.

“What’s weird is that,” Kate mentions, “earlier today Victoria and her friends actually… apologized to me.”

Out of all the things to come out of Kate’s mouth, _Victoria and her friends apologized to me_ is probably the last thing Max expects to hear. Right after, _you know, Max, I’ve been getting into devil worship lately, and it’s actually pretty cool_. Now that she thinks about it, there are many things she doesn’t expect to come out of Kate’s mouth.

“Wait,” Max says. “How early?”

“Taylor’s in my first period English class. They were hanging out with her by the door when they came up to me,” Kate tells her, “Victoria seemed oddly sincere.”

“They apologized to you,” Max repeats in sheer disbelief, turning it over in her mind again and again, as if it would somehow make more sense that way. “Victoria’s posse apologized to you.”

This can’t be real. Max would pinch herself to check it’s not a dream, but she thinks that, if this were a dream, Chloe or Other Max would have shown up by now. She’s not sure if the realization makes her sad or relieved. Chloe or Other Max. It’s the flip of a coin: either the ghost in her bed or the ghost in her head. Either one could make her cry.

“I don’t know if I believed them,” Kate says, and Max can’t help but agree since this is Victoria they're talking about, “but they seemed so _honest_ about it that… after school, when Taylor started screaming at me…” She sighs, then, like she’s sure what she has to say but doesn’t want to say it. “Max, I appreciate what you did, really. I asked you not to go to Mr. Keaton about this, but what’s done is done.”

“I’m not so sure it’s done,” Max says, “If I know Victoria, she’ll be on the warpath before the day is out, but don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Kate’s mouth contorts into a grimace. “I don’t know, Max. It might be best to just let sleeping dogs lie.”

“You know me,” Max smiles, “Always sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

 

 

Max finally finds Victoria an hour later, standing right outside the girls’ bathroom in the dormitory.

“What now?” Victoria greets, eyes cold as ice. “Feel like testing your luck again? You’re lucky I didn’t let Taylor rip you and Kate to shreds.” _Of course._ Of course she’s acting like Max should be grateful.

“So why didn’t you?” Max challenges her, and, when Victoria doesn’t immediately answer, she continues. “You’re always acting like some Queen Bee stereotype, but you apologized to Kate. You even called out Taylor today after school. You could have let her do whatever she wanted, but you didn’t.”

“So _ooo_?” Victoria prompts, derisive as always. “Maybe, I just didn’t feel like it, and, maybe, you talking to me is making me reconsider.”

“What is your deal, Victoria?” Max asks. “You ruin Kate’s life by promoting that awful video that-”

“Which I apologized for in October,” Victoria points out, but the way she says it lacks any remorse at all. Max can’t believe she thinks all is forgiven just because she spouted off some meaningless apology.

_I bet that comforts Kate’s family. I don’t even know how you sleep at night._

If Max came here to smooth things over, Victoria is quickly changing her mind. She widens her stance, arms outward, “And you made Kate feel bad for giving Taylor notes and made Courtney _trip_ her-”

“First of all, I didn’t make _anyone_ do _anything_. And I told her to fuck off because it was just making Taylor feel like shit,” Victoria argues in her defense. “How would you feel if someone you _didn’t like_ kept making you look stupid in front of your friends?”

_I’m not perfect, okay? I’m a teenager at an art school._

Max looks at her in disbelief. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. How could Victoria not see the irony there? “I wonder how, Victoria. I really do! It’s not as though you do that _every day_ in our Photography class.” Her sarcasm is biting, aiming for the same derision.

“That’s different.” Victoria’s brow furrows. “I actually care about photography. Kate’s never been to a single Shakespeare Club meeting. Haven’t seen her in the Drama Club, either.”

God, the justifications Victoria makes to herself. _Your photographs suck, Victoria. You make fun of my selfies, but most of your photos are basically headshots._

“Have you ever considered that she was repelled from those clubs by bullies like you and Courtney and Taylor?” Max takes a step towards her. Now, she doesn’t even want to understand. She just wants to wound. She wants to hurt. “Do you even have a clue what’s been going on here? Think for one minute beyond your petty drama. What about Kate? She tried to kill herself in front of everybody, and that didn’t even stop you getting one last video of her on that roof!”

But Victoria just looks at her, confused. “What are you even talking about?”

Max blinks, wondering why Victoria’s eyes don’t spark with recognition. “I… Wait…” _Kate didn’t try to kill herself in this timeline, dumbass_.

Max doesn’t even have time to wrap her head around this news. Victoria is suddenly split in two, and, maybe, just maybe she was wrong earlier. Maybe, this is another of her dreams after all. Two Victorias doesn’t sound like something that happens outside of dreams. Then again, last night’s reality gave her two Maxes. Really, two Victorias doesn’t sound like that much of a stretch.

“Holy shit,” both Victorias call out, and Max does a double take at how distorted her (their?) voice sounds. It’s even weirder with both of the mouths opening at once. “Max, your nose is bleeding!”

Next she knows, everything goes black.

 

 

 

Max wakes up in the health center with a splitting headache.

And Warren is there, of all people. “MadMax finally wakes from her slumber,” He grins. “Hey, you okay?”

Max sits up, holding her head in her hands. “What… What time is it?”

“It’s eight or nine,” but Warren assures her, “Don’t sweat it. Your teachers were all emailed for the assignments due tomorrow, and you know Wednesday rehearsals are optional for the tech crew, anyways.”

“I… Victoria…” Max mumbles. “The last I can remember, I was- I was talking to Victoria.”

“I guess that explains why she was the one who signed you in,” Warren scratches his head. “She somehow got my number and texted me about it, so I came to make sure you’re not dying of blood loss. Really weird turn of events, actually.”

Max rests her aching back against the wall, the thin paper underneath her following with this scratching sound. It sounds a little like sandpaper. Rubbing sandpaper to smooth out a paint job. “Warren, I’m not sure what’s happening to me lately.”

“So, talk to me,” Warren looks down at his fidgeting hands. “Or Kate. Someone. I don’t know. Just don’t shut us out anymore. Lately, it’s like you’ve been a whole different person.”

“My best friend _died_ , Warren.” She’s not even sure why what he’s saying is rubbing her the wrong way. It’s sandpaper against her lungs, but he’s not _wrong_. She hasn’t been the same person she was before the storm. Not for a long time.

“A friend you never talked to any of us about,” Warren points out, and, if he notices her irritation, he doesn’t push back with his own. _Oh, Warren_. “We didn’t even know you were friends with her until she died. Aren't we supposed to be your friends, too? I just want to know what you’re going through, okay? I just want to understand. Maybe, I can help.”

Some part of her wants to finally unload the events of that week onto someone. She has this need to tell someone everything. But that treacherous little voice inside reminds her. _Jefferson_ wanted to understand them. _Jefferson_ wanted them to open up to him. And look what Jefferson turned out to be.

She closes her eyes and takes in a deep, steadying breath. “Not today, Warren. Just… give me time.”

He sighs in defeat and finally agrees, “I can give you time, if that’s what you need.”

_But you can’t, can you, Warren? No one can give me back time, or anything._

_Time just takes and takes_.

 

 

Victoria is at the end of the hall that night, despite everything. Or, possibly, _because_ of everything.  

Max takes out the stack of photographs from her messenger bag and holds it out to her. “Here, here’s the rehearsal pictures. I thought you’d… I don’t know. I thought you’d want to see them.”

Some part of her is tempted to apologize for tearing into her earlier. The other part wants an excuse to tear into her even more. It’s kind of an ugly patchwork of feelings.

But Victoria doesn’t comment on what happened earlier. Instead, Victoria wordlessly receives the stack, setting it in her lap. With her free hand, she takes a photo and holds it up to her lighter. The light bounces off the glossy exterior like a lighthouse shining onto the ocean. For a moment, watching her like this, Max is afraid she’s going to set it on fire. But Victoria just stares at it intently, or maybe a better word would be intensely. Then, she folds it back into the stack and holds up the next one. Then, the next. Then, the _next_.

It makes Max uncomfortable. The quiet between them makes it worse, somehow.

She tries to fill the silence. “It’s not exactly my best work. I get it if you’re not feeling the shots,” Max finds herself rambling, “Oh, and the _glare_ from the lights on one of them is just awf-”

“No, they’re perfect,” Victoria immediately interrupts her, voice distant. Victoria doesn’t even sound awe-struck, saying this like it’s a matter of fact. True or false. Right or wrong. Black or white. “They’re so… you.”

“What,” Max can’t help but say, practically falling to her knees in front of her. It’s not even said like a question because that implies her shock is uncertain, as though there’s some possibility that this could all make sense. There’s no question mark, and there’s no uncertainty. Max is very sure that she is _very_ shocked that Victoria Chase has no criticism for once in her goddamn life.

Speaking of, she’s done with the stack, so she starts to hand them back to Max. Max in turn pushes her hands away. “No, Victoria, they’re yours to keep.”

She sees her eyes turn to steel, and her lips twist into a frown. “ _No_ , you’re _taking_ them back and putting them into your portfolio.” Victoria says it like it’s a matter of severity. Like this will make or break Max’s career.

Max glances over a couple, flipping through them curiously. They’re half cast in shadow, owing any light at all to Victoria’s lighter. All Max can pick out are some decent close-ups. “They’re that good?” She wishes she could see what Victoria sees.

“A _few_ of them, yeah,” Victoria sighs, like she hates that they’re even having this conversation. “Put them in your portfolio, Max.”

So Max takes the photographs and puts them back in her messenger bag, her eyes still on Victoria and this strange person she transforms into near midnight. “Fine,” Max says, still baffled.

_Did Victoria just give me genuine advice? Or is she trying for sabotage?_

“I’ll trust you,” Max then concludes. “Maybe against my better judgment, but I’ll trust you.”

“You know, I don’t hate you,” Victoria admits, “I actually…”

But if she means to continue that thought, she doesn’t, and Max doesn’t press her further. She could, and there might be some other timeline where she does and it changes everything. But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves to sit next to her, and it’s Victoria who next breaks the silence.

“Were those the first, serious photos you’ve taken since October?” She asks, and Max startles at that because _how could she know?_

“W-what? October?” Max swallows. Her mind goes to Chloe dying over and over. Writing and rewriting the timeline over and over. Over and over until she doesn’t even know what’s real anymore. Frankly, she’s not sure she ever regained her sense of reality.

“You know, since what happened with Nathan and your friend,” Victoria hints because of course that’s what she means.

“Chloe,” Max corrects her because her name is worth saying. She’s not some faceless victim. She’s Chloe Price, and she was someone. Still is someone. That’s worth something.

“Chloe,” Victoria repeats, and maybe she understands. Maybe she gets it.

“The first photos I took since Chloe were during Winter Break,” Max admits, “Just some shots of my backyard. They’re pretty lame, actually.”

“I want to see them,” Victoria says before tacking on, “if that’s okay.”

Max frowns, wondering what Victoria’s intentions are. “Um, okay, wait here,” she tells her as she starts to head to her dorm room. Her hands shake as she unlocks it, the last memory of what happened coming to mind. Head against the mirror. Hands around her throat. 

The moment she spots the mirror, she flinches on instinct. Max Caulfield, retired time warrior, afraid of the flimsy mirror in her room. Not even children are afraid of their reflection. _Mirrors aren’t even on their radar_ , Max thinks, _it’s all monsters under the bed and ghosts in the closet and whether their friend will even speak to them tomorrow after a stupid playground fight_. Then again, children don’t usually have their reflection try to _strangle_ them in the middle of the night.

Besides, Max _knows_ her best friend won’t speak to her tomorrow.

Or, well, maybe she will. Life has been weirder than usual lately, and that’s saying something. Marty McFly’s adventures have nothing on the life and times of Max Caulfield. Not even the sequels.

Wanting to be out of her dorm as fast as possible, she quickly glances around until she spots the photos from Winter Break, all white and blue and grey. Her winter wonderland. For a moment, she stalls in her mission, feeling that same warmth in her chest from back then. It’s this alluring illusion of hope that she loves and hates and _wants_ above all else. But, then, she remembers what she’s here for. She swoops them up and practically runs out of the room, closing the door shut behind her.

It’s a while before Victoria speaks again, looking through the set of photos.

“Who took this shot?” Victoria asks, which is weird because Max is sure she shot all of them. But when she takes a closer look at the photo Victoria is pointing to, she gets why she asked.

The photo she took in her snowy backyard pictured the back of her house and back door, opened slightly.

But this photo has Max right there in front of the door.

And she’s starting straight into the camera.

“I- uh-” Max is frozen in fear as she stares at the photograph. “I don’t…”

Max is no genius, but even she realizes the subject in the photo could not have possibly taken this photograph from _that_ angle at _that_ distance.

But Max _remembers_ taking that shot. She remembers the click of pressing the button and the little square picture developing in her eager hands. She photographed this. She had to.

There was no one else in that backyard with her.

“What the hell, Caulfield?” Victoria mutters. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

 

 

“Max, can you tell me what Diane Arbus is famous for?”

That Thursday, in class, when Max answers a question wrong about Diane Arbus, Victoria lets it slide.

“Oh, okay, can anyone tell me what Diane Arbus is famous for?” Mr. Lehrer looks between them, perhaps puzzled that Victoria isn’t going to jump in with the correct answer. “Anyone?” To his credit, Max is just as puzzled.

So, finally, he lets it slide, too. He launches into the lecture with, “Diane Arbus is a photographer famous for her atypical subject matter, people who were marginalized from mainstream society.”

Max wonders if it’s out of pity or courtesy. The two sometimes feel the same to her.

She spins the pencil on the surface of her notes.

“Max, can you tell me what Diane Arbus is famous for?”

That Thursday, in class, when Max answers a question wrong about Diane Arbus, Victoria lets it slide.

“Oh, okay, can anyone tell me what Diane Arbus is famous for?” Mr. Lehrer looks between them, perhaps puzzled that Victoria isn’t going to jump in with the correct answer. “Anyone?” To his credit, Max is just as puzzled.

The pencil is spinning counter-clockwise.

 _Did that just happen?_ Max stares at the pencil, feeling like this means something. _Why did everything repeat?_

She raises her hand, then, deciding to take this chance. “Mr. Lehrer, Diane Arbus is famous for photographing people who aren’t usually photographed. The, uh, unseen kinds of people.”

Mr. Lehrer blinks, surprised that she answered correctly. “Yes, actually,” he looked to the rest of the class with renewed energy, “Arbus photographed a lot of atypical subjects like those with dwarfism, people who were transgender, basically people who were often not given positive attention or even basic empathy.”

Max catches Victoria looking at her in shock, and she can’t help but forget that what just happened isn’t _normal_.

 

 

Max and Victoria reach a kind of understanding. Neither apologize, but they both know they’re sorry about what happened, or at least sorry that they’re not more sorry. And, despite everything - or maybe _because_ of everything, they keep coming back night after night, to that same spot at the end of the hall, to smoke side-by-side. Each night passes in quaint, companionable silence and the dreamy haze of smoke.

It’s not nothing. Max doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not nothing.

 

 

When Max is in her dorm, when she even bothers to go in and shut the door, she finds her gaze avoids the mirror. Even when she tries to will herself to do it, she gets this feeling in her stomach not unlike plummeting down a several feet drop. It’s the same when she’s in the bathroom. Other Max must be watching. Always watching. Lying in wait. Wanting to…

It gets to the point she covers her room’s mirror with the edge of a tapestry.

She could still star in her nightmares like she usually does, but it’s the only defense she can think of. And, she has to admit the way the bohemian print covers her reflection is satisfying. The tapestry resembles a quilt, if she squints. It’s as though she’s blanketed in safety. Small mercies.

These days, it feels like all Max has are small mercies.

 

 

This night she doesn’t dream of Other Max. She dreams she’s crying in Chloe’s arms, and she can smell this harsh, acidic smell. It’s a little like vomit, but she can’t put her finger on why there’d be vomit. But she’s not thinking about that.

All she can think is how much she hates herself.

“I’m so sorry,” She cries. “It’s all me. It’s all me. It’s all my _fault_.”

“Hey,” Chloe says, “ _No_ , it’s not you. It’s the fucking world, Max. It’s just- It’s life.” And she kisses Max on the forehead as she holds her, like Max is something precious. “It’s life, Max.”

In Chloe’s arms, Max always feels like something precious. Someone unique and beautiful and amazing. Like a goddess or superhero or something else that Max isn’t but wishes she could be.

In Chloe’s arms is possibility.

 

 

Saturday is a mandatory rehearsal day, so, she drags herself to Mr. Keaton’s classroom after school with newfound purpose.

Stella is giving out assignments to the tech crew as usual, and Brooke frowns whenever Max’s gaze meets hers. She wonders why Brooke is unhappy in this timeline. It’s not like Max went to the drive-through with Warren. She barely even spoke to him these past few months.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Stella telling Max to go find last year’s props in storage.

Max salutes because she’s feeling like being silly for once. “Aye, aye, Stella.”

To which Stella rolls her eyes with a smile. “To _day_ , Max!”

Baby steps. She’s getting better day by day. At least, she hopes she’s getting better.

As she goes to the storage room, she sees Warren has tagged along. “I have to get some extension cords, too,” Warren explains, and Max is about to point out that Samuel probably has some extension cords and that he doesn’t need to come with her on _her_ little quest. But then, as they make their way towards the room, she realizes what this is about.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for a long time,” Warren starts.

And, she’s flattered, really. “Warren,” Max tells him, unlocking the door with its key, “Can this wait?”

“It’s just, it’s hard to get you alone,” Warren says, “and half the time it’s like you’re-”

She thinks of Victoria’s phone call during Winter Break. “In Zombie Mode?”

“Yeah, like the zombie movies where they can still kind of talk, but they’re not really _there_ ,” Warren nods, “But, uh, anyways, I know you haven’t really been opening up to anyone lately, but I was hoping you’d-”

“Open up to you? About October?” Max finishes, and she’s thinking this is almost painful. It was a different kind of painful back in October, when she had her heart set on Chloe and Warren was just that friend that lingered in the background. Now, it’s just sad in a very real way, like he’s all she has left. These are the tatters of Max’s love life.  

To take her mind off her love life, she looks around the storage room for whatever last year’s production was. It’d be 2013, but none of the labels are big enough for her to spot it immediately. She crouches down to get a good look at the boxes closer to the floor.

“Yeah, exactly,” Warren says, and, with all that hope in his voice, she can’t let this go on. She has to let him down easy.

“Warren, I appreciate the interest,” Max answers, still looking through the piles of boxes, “but I can’t go out with you.”

“What?” is all Warren can say, and he seems completely baffled. “You think I’m asking you on a _date_?”

Max stands up to look at him past the stacks and stacks of supplies. “You’re… not?”

“No, I- I wanted some advice,” Warren says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“What about?” Max asks. What on Earth would Warren need her help with?

Warren shrugs and looks askance. “I’ve been visiting Nathan Prescott, and I had some questions, if you don’t mind me asking.”

 

 

By the end of rehearsal, she promises Warren that she’ll text him if she has more to talk about.

She doesn’t tell him about her and Chloe. She’s not sure how to. She’s not sure she wants to. It's too deep a wound, even now, and it hasn't begun to scab over yet. But she tells him about why Chloe met with Nathan that day, and she tells him what she knows about Jefferson and Nathan and Mr. Prescott.

She tells him about Rachel Amber, too. Warren has a lot of questions about her.

She’s not sure why he’s asking her, specifically. Maybe it’s because she’s the only one alive besides Mark Jefferson, Victoria, and the Prescotts who has a suspicious amount of ties to Nathan. Maybe it’s because she’s been through a lot, too, and that maybe comes with some secret knowledge of how to reach someone. Maybe it’s just because they’re good friends, and he doesn’t know who else to turn to. Really, she doesn’t know.

But he seems to perk up after their talk, and the most important New Years resolution is to help her friends, right?

Despite ignoring him for so long, he still counts her as a friend, and she’s thankful for that much as she watches him leave rehearsal.

But then Brooke is in front of her. “You really just couldn’t let him be,” She says. “Could you?”

 _Oh no, what did I do wrong now?_ She sighs.

“Brooke,” Max tells her, “if you have something to say, please just say it.”

“You ignore him for months, practically breaking his heart,” Brooke points out, “then, you just waltz into the drama department, despite the fact you’ve never had any interest before, and you bring up his hopes again.”

“I don’t know what he told you,” Max says, “but I’m not bringing up anyone’s hopes. Warren and I are friends.”

“Really? Because it didn’t look that way last semester when you just _gave up,_ on school, your friends, everything,” Brooke mentions, “That’s not the Max I respected.”

Max never thought of it that way.

“I- I’m sorry,” Max says, “I didn’t mean to disappoint everyone.”

Brooke frowns, “If you really feel that way, don’t do it again, since Warren deserves better than that. _Kate Marsh_ deserves better than that.” Having said her piece, Brooke takes her backpack and leaves.

Max watches her go, and she thinks then that sadness is like an infection. It touches everyone differently, and, sometimes, it’s so hard to shake that it spreads.

 

 

 

“Warren’s been visiting Nathan,” Max begins, breaking the well-crafted silence they’ve created over the past few nights.

Victoria laughs that almost barely there laughter of hers. “Wow, Max, I didn’t notice, what with how Nathan can’t _shut the fuck up_ about him.”

The confirmation is so surreal. Max never would have expected there could be a world where a Nathan and a Warren could meet and not be at each other’s throats. Then again, Nathan wasn’t after Max in this timeline. Warren didn’t have to fight him off in this timeline. Warren didn’t even know Chloe in this timeline. There was no beatdown, no insults, no anything, just vague knowledge that they ran in different circles.

But there’s also that Victoria is talking to Nathan, at least enough to know that Nathan talks about Warren.

“You’ve been visiting him, too,” Max notes.

Victoria’s expression sobers up. “Here and there,” She says.

“Despite what he did, I- I hope he’s getting the help he needs,” Max tells her, “I know it hasn’t exactly been easy for him.”

“I’m not talking about Nathan with you,” Victoria settles it, as if Max is asking too much (and maybe she is).

It'd be so easy to just slip back into that comfortable silence, but there's this nagging part of her that wants to prolong this. Like picking at a scab and, the more you pick at it, the more it stings, but you just can't help it.

So, after gathering her thoughts, Max talks about Warren instead. “Brooke says that I’m giving Warren false hope, by joining the tech crew…” She finds herself continuing that train of thought. “Maybe it was a mistake to sign up for this. I don’t know the first thing about Shakespeare or theatre.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Fuck her and fuck him. You don’t owe them anything.”

“I just don’t want to make things worse,” Max explains. “I feel like…. Like… that guy from that myth. Everything he touches turns to shit.”

“Midas,” Victoria says, voice critical, “And everything he touches turns to _gold,_ genius.”

“It should have been shit,” Max says. “I certainly feel like it.”

“I’ll have to send the millennia-dead author your critique, Gluteus Maximus,” Victoria comments dryly.

“Wow, thanks, Victoria,” Max mutters, “You’re such a big help.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “What am I supposed to do? Tell you your self-pity is justified? Max, you’re way too hard on yourself for a high schooler.” She exhales some smoke into Max’s face, which makes her nose crinkle. “For all you know, girl’s just having her own issues and taking it out on you.”

Max thinks back to the End of the World Party. _I always feel like I have to overcompensate. For what I have no clue._

“You do that a lot, too,” Max points out, “Taking out your insecurities on me.”

“Well, there you go,” Victoria gestures to her in agreement, almost indifferently, as if Max used some other example that didn’t hit so close to home. Max can’t help but wonder what this means. This timeline might have made Victoria more confident. It’s always a possibility when everything else is so drastically different.

But, then again, Victoria doesn’t say much the rest of the night.

 

 

Chloe pushes Max’s hand away when they're huddled together in the sleeping bag. Cloaked in darkness like this, Max feels more alone than ever. It’s been like this lately, and Max just wants everything to return to normal. Well, maybe not normal, but _their_ normal.

“Max, could you be honest with me?” She requests.

“Yes, of course, Chloe,” Max replies because how could she even _ask_ that after everything she gave up?

“Am I why you’ve been drinking?”

The question is a stab to the heart.

“Chloe, I-” Max chokes out, “I haven’t been drinking _that_ much.”

“I thought you said you’d be honest.” Chloe turns to lie facing her, but Max can’t see her face.

“Chloe,” Max says, and that’s all she can get out before she’s awake and the alarm clock is blaring in her ear and Max just wants Chloe _back_.

 _Give her back. Fuck everything else. Just give her back_ , Max thinks, a silent betrayal.

Max wonders how many betrayals she’ll average before the day is out.

 

 

Max asks one night, tilting the blunt up in the air, “Did you buy this from Frank?”

Victoria pauses her smoking to give Max a critical once-over. “How the hell do _you_ know Frank Bowers?”

Max shrugs, “Chloe knew him.” Her heart still constricts when she says her name. Especially in past tense like that. Chloe should always be present tense, like the sky, the mountains, ever present in the background.

Victoria doesn’t respond to that factoid, just looks away and states, “He was arrested. I got the weed from someone else.”

Her stomach churns, thinking of that week in October and how they wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Frank’s help, and Victoria rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. The creep was Nathan’s dealer. Did you expect the investigation to ignore that?”

“I guess I didn’t consider that,” Max admits, “At all. It’s not like he killed her.”

“Frank sold date rape drugs,” Victoria tells her, like she’s talking about the weather. Does she talk about _anything_ terrible with the gravity it requires? “The same ones that-”

“I know,” Max says. The ones that they gave to Kate and Chloe and countless other girls. The ones that cut Rachel’s life short before it even really began. The ones that probably killed Max and Victoria in another timeline. The drugs that caused so much suffering. Max knows. She _knows_. She just wishes she didn’t.

Victoria turns to her, and she just looks at her. Max can only guess what she sees.

She must look frighteningly naïve to her.

 

 

Max goes to the next rehearsal with anxiety hugging at her back.

“Hey, Kate,” She greets with a friendly smile, “Victoria and her friends are leaving you alone, right?”

“Uh, yeah, Max,” Kate says, “Are you… okay? You look really tired.”

Max looks around at the rest of the cast and crew, finding a noticeable absence. Usually, the assistant director was shooting out orders by now. “Where’s Stella?”

“You didn’t know?” Kate asks, and Max can feel her stomach twist and turn.

“W-what? Why’s Stella gone?”

Kate lowers her voice, “They connected her to the Jefferson case.”

But that’s ridiculous. Max knows Stella has nothing to do with Jefferson’s sick little hobby. All she’s guilty of was having a crush on the wrong teacher.

“W-what? Stella was too busy to be involved in something like _that_ ,” Max says.

“So busy she was on pills,” Kate mentions, and now Max remembers. Stella Hill was a regular customer of Frank Bowers. “ _Unprescribed_ pills.”

 

 

“Stella’s been taken in for questioning,” Max says under the shadows of the dorm hall later that night. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Worried about what?” Victoria says. “Her love of Adderall going from open secret to public record?”

“You’re so glib about something that could ruin her life,” Max grumbles, wrapping her arms around herself, “Stella’s so nice, and she works harder than anyone I've ever met. She deserves better. Everybody deserves better. It- It feels like everything is falling apart lately. Stella, Kate, Brooke… I saw David Madsen the other day, and he looked almost _haunted_.”

“Madsen, the security guard? Jesus fucking Christ, Max,” Victoria sighs. “The guy’s a piece of shit. Don’t feel bad for him.”

“I feel bad for everyone,” Max says, “I can’t help it.”

“You’re so sugar and spice and everything nice,” Victoria says in disgust, “It makes me want to gag sometimes.”

“Yet you’re still here,” Max says.

“Yeah,” Victoria nods, “I’m still here, even if you’re too noble for your own good.”

“Noble?” Max scoffs, “There’s nothing noble about being too helpless to actually _do_ anything.”

“You give yourself way too little credit,” Victoria rolls her eyes, “I may not like you, but even I have to admit you actually give a shit. Not a lot of people here do. Even the people who are _supposed_ to give a shit. Look at Principal Wells. He overlooked everything Nathan did because all of that Prescott hush money. Do you think he got Nathan the help he needs? Fuck no.”

She pauses to take a drag off the blunt. “And, you think Sean Prescott made all those bribes because he really cares about his son? Bullshit. It’s all about protecting the family name. No wonder Kristy got out as soon as possible. But you actually hope for Nathan’s recovery, despite the fact he _shot_ Chloe. He needs someone in his corner right now, you know? Ever since the Dark Room shit got out, he’s been persona-non-grata. The Vortex Club just carries on like he never existed. They won’t even say _his name_ , Max. He gave his everything to those parties, but now it’s like… They just threw him away.”

“No one says Chloe’s name, either,” Max says. “It’s like, it’s like they just want to forget.”

“But you don’t,” Victoria says, and Max’s throat feels dry, “Because you actually care. Because… Because you’re a good person.” Then, another pause. “Because you’re not anything like me.”

Max wishes she could see what Victoria sees.

“What if you’re _wrong_?” Max says, her eyes starting to sting. “What if I… What if I had to make terrible decisions, a-and none of the choices I had were good and no matter what people end up hurt and d-dead and…” She finds her breathing shakier as she goes, and now it’s hard to hold in the sobs. It’s so _difficult_. “W-what if I had to decide something _terrible_ to prevent something… worse?”

“You’d do what needs to be done,” Victoria answers, as if she knows, “and no one can blame you for that but yourself.”

Max disagrees, “They should, though. People got hurt because of me.”

“What kind of Trolley Problem was this?” Victoria mutters under her breath, before putting out the blunt with the carpeting. Max half-expects it to catch on fire, but all she can see from this angle is the leftover smoke and, then, nothing. “Of course you feel bad, you’re _you_. Butterflies would make you cry.”

Once again, that déjà vu. _Oh, hi, I'm Max Caulfield and I'm so sensitive that butterflies make me cry._

But Max is still stuck on the first thing. “Trolley Problem?”

“So there’s a trolley going down its tracks. Up ahead is a fork in the path,” Victoria describes, voice clinical and cold. “On the track it’s set for, there’s a person in the way, and they can’t get off it no matter how hard they try. On the other track are multiple people. Six or seven, maybe. You can save the one person by changing the trolley’s track, but, if you do, people still die.”

“Sounds really morbid,” Max says, even though it fits so well it’s creepy.

Victoria shrugs. “That’s philosophers for you.”

“So,” Max answers, “you save the people on the other track. Right?”

“There’s no right or wrong answer,” Victoria argues, “It’s a problem for a reason. Because, say the one person is someone famous. Or a loved one. Who knows? The people on the other track could all be serial killers.”

She has a hard time imagining the people of Arcadia Bay as serial killers. Even what happened with Rachel wasn’t exactly Nathan’s intention. She wants to hate them all. It’d be easier, or at least better for her mental health. They’re all evil, and then they die. It has a finality to it.

But some part of her knows that’s not the world she wants to live in.

“Maybe,” Max admits, more to herself than Victoria, “Maybe, I just want them all to live, for once.”

Victoria lets out a breath of almost laughter, but Max can’t shake how similar it sounds to a sob, quiet yet choked with emotion. “For once, everybody lives,” She mocks, and she actually laughs this time but it just makes her sound more sad. “O _kay_ , Max. Okay.”

 

 

“Chloe’s been avoiding me,” Max tells Steph in the kitchen, “I don’t know what to do. Chloe’s all I have. I- I can’t lose her again.”

Steph puts it to her gently, and Max has no idea how anyone can have that much patience. “She’s just worried about you. You’ve been drinking a _lot_. I have to admit, I’m still peeved about credit card incident. It’s really concerning.”

“I know, it wasn’t cool of me to do that,” Max admits, leaning against the counter. “I hope you can forgive me.”

She shakes her head. “No, what I’m trying to say is you _do_ need help. You _do_ have a problem. You can’t just ignore that,” Steph says, “but it’s not like I blame you.”

“What do you mean, you don’t “blame” me?” Max asks, something about that irking her.

“Max, I didn’t mean it that way,” She insists. “I just mean- Chloe tells the story like you _saved_ her. You and her survived the natural disaster of the century and went on a very long, arduous road trip together, after being apart for so long with- with all these unresolved tensions between you. These are _stressors_ that can trigger things like this.”

Oh, of course. It always comes back to _that_ , doesn’t it?

“You’re blaming Chloe?” Max feels white hot rage rush through her veins. “ _Seriously,_ Steph? You’re supposed to be on our side here.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Steph says.

“I thought you were her friend,” Max tells her, “You always talk like you and Chloe are such _good_ friends. But you’re just like everyone else in her life, blaming her when it’s convenient-”

“And where were _you_?” Steph shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Where were you when her dad died? When she was flunking out of school? Where were _you_ when everything got scary and difficult?”

“Hey, guys,” Chloe greets from the doorway, looking between them with thinly veiled concern, “Is everything okay over here?”

 

 

Max doesn’t know what to do with these dreams, she realizes at her desk. Hunched over her dream journal, she looks over this last entry. Their little conversation. She still has no idea who this Steph is, or why she keeps reappearing in her Chloe Dreams. She doesn’t like it. Chloe Dreams are supposed to star Chloe and Max and nobody else.

So, the fact that this person, who probably doesn’t even exist, keeps popping up is really starting to aggravate her. Maybe Max is being greedy, but she doesn’t like sharing.

Her dreams are _hers_ , not this mystery girl’s.

 

 

Speaking of dreams, Max has that dream of the crucifix on the mind when she meets with Kate. Maybe it’s because Kate’s blouse is a familiar cerulean blue, the same shade of blue that starred in the nightmare.

“Is everything okay?” Max asks over tea. “I know everything’s been really difficult for you, lately.”

Kate takes a sip out of her cup. “It’s okay.” The blouse reminds her of the butterfly’s wings. Hopefully flying free, far away from this place.

“It’s not, Kate,” she says, “Self-harm is serious, and _dangerous_.”

Kate frowns, looking down into the cup of tea. “You’re not going to tell anyone,” she prompts, “right?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Max says, taking her cup with the realization she hasn’t drank any tea at all today. “I was hoping you’d have some idea.” It tastes like peppermint, which suits the cold weather lately. It’s the season of snuggling under blankets and sipping something minty and sweet.

“You could always just,” Kate answers, “listen to me, for once.”

She wonders if Kate ever has anyone to snuggle with under the blankets.

“Okay,” Max replies. “I’m here. I’m listening.”

And she sits and she listens.

 

 

Max sits in the dorm hall alone for a few hours, flipping through notifications on her phone while she waits for Victoria. She knows that Victoria’s going to be late, since there’s a Vortex Club party tonight. Victoria even told her not to wait up, but Max has this gut feeling she’ll show up anyways.

And even if she doesn’t, Max doesn’t particularly feel like going to sleep tonight.

Chloe Dreams depress her, and Not-Chloe Dreams terrify her.

Sleep is a demon intent on torturing Max with what she can’t have and with all the things she has left to lose. Max has no time for demons. Max has no time to face her demons, either. She just wants some company and maybe some weed to take the edge off. Victoria’s a lot of things, but she’s never earned the title of demon. Not to mention, she has weed.

Her phone’s clock shines **2:14 AM** by the time she sees Victoria stumble into the dorm hall. She’s wearing this dark velvet top that flows outward at the waist and a tight skirt that stops right above her knees. She has on these tall, black boots, too. Max doesn’t know fashion, but she appears on-trend, if Max had to guess. Victoria wouldn’t settle for anything less.

She has a bottle in her hand, and, as she drops herself down next to Max, she holds it out.

“How was-” That’s when she sees it. How can she not? “Victoria, what happened?”

There’s a purplish red mark forming on Victoria’s face, right below her cheekbone.

Max finds her hand is slowly edging toward the bruise. Her hand raises and gets closer, remaining at this glacial pace. Right as she’s about to make contact, Victoria turns her face away, leaving Max’s fingers hanging in the air. It leaves her wondering what the hell her intentions were. So she puts her hands in her lap, and she looks down, realizing she might have crossed a line. No wonder Victoria flinched away from her touch. Just then, the screen on her phone darkens, and Max’s mood goes along with it.

Victoria silently nudges her with the bottle. Max takes it and squints through the darkness, struggling to make out the letters in the dark. She could turn her phone’s light back on to find out, but some part of her doesn’t want to know. All she can tell is that it’s strong the moment she pops off the cap. She’d only had wine before, a couple of times at Chloe’s house when they were younger, and this doesn’t smell like wine.

When she takes a cautious sip, the beverage doesn’t taste like wine either. It’s earthier. She can’t tell whether it’s flavored with anything, but, if it is, it must be something with spice. It tastes warm, more than anything else. Just pure warmth. It’s not a sunny day on the beach kind of warmth, more like laying on the rug by the fireplace and setting your hand just above the flame. So close that the fire nearly licks your palm. It’s a dangerous kind of warmth.

She lowers the bottle and gives Victoria a nudge. Victoria takes a drink. She wonders if Victoria can taste the danger, too.

They pass it back and forth like that for a while.

“So, we’re not gonna talk about it?” Max finally asks, and the question dangles in the air like a betrayal.

“No,” Victoria says, with all the energy of a coma patient, “It’s not like we’re friends.”

 

Even though Max never pretended they were, the statement still stings. The thought is a scab. The more she picks at it, the more it stings, but she just can't help herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of like one step forward, two steps back with these two, hm?
> 
> Oh, more Chasefield next chapter. But also more weird horror-ish stuff. Not to mention drama (both the Hamlet kind and the conflict kind). Stay tuned.
> 
> EDIT: Also, before I forget, somebody needs to write a Carol AU for Chasefield.


	5. Max Loves Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an incredibly long chapter. Next chapter will probably not be nearly as long. 
> 
> Anyways, there's a lot of setting up and build-up in this chapter for the next chapter, so that'll be fun.

“Hey, sweetie,” Mom’s voice filters through the background noise, “I just wanted to check in. You know I worry sometimes.”

Max eats her lunch with her free hand, the other pressing the phone to her ear. Her mouth full, she manages a, “Hi, Mom.”

“It must be lunchtime over there. I hope you’re eating something filling,” Mom says, and Max swallows the chewed bite of sandwich. “How are you doing?”

Max doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s weird. Before that week in October, she usually just answered, _I'_ _m okay_  to questions like that. It’s this immediate impulse. The sort of thing you just say automatically, without even thinking. In some ways, it’s reminiscent to muscle memory. You’re not doing it strategically; you just remember doing it so often that your motor functions lead you without a second thought.

But here, she can’t bring herself to just say the words _._

_I’m okay. I’m alright. Everyone’s alive. Chloe’s right here. Kate’s not cutting herself. Warren’s not visiting Public Enemy #1. Frank’s not in jail. Brooke’s not mad at me. I’m not meeting Victoria every night to smoke weed. I don't want to die. Everything is fine._

She can’t bring herself to speak the truth, either.

So, she tells a half-truth, “Valentine’s Day is in a week and a half, so there’s all these decorations.” She smiles, then, imagining Dana enthusiastically setting up the banners and paper hearts. She vaguely remembers Dana decorating for Halloween, too, but Max wasn’t exactly in the festive mood back then. “It’s actually really cool. I wish you could see-” Then, she remembers her phone has a camera feature. Ironically enough, she forgets that a lot.

Max tells her, “Mom, I’ll show you. Gimme a minute.”

She turns to the big Valentine’s Day poster behind her. It’s this big purple pink poster adorned with two green pears and the caption, _We make a nice pear!_   Max can’t help but laugh, the proper response to such an adorable pun. The _i_ even has a heart over it. She presses the button and hears the little snapshot sound from the phone.

Once she sends the photo, she puts the phone back to her ear. “Did you see it?” Max asks, “Really sweet, right?”

“Oooh,” Mom coos, like she just saw a puppy, “It is! It’s great to see you getting into the spirit. You _are_ my beautiful girl, after all. It wouldn’t be a surprise to see you with a Valentine.”

“Not really,” Max lets out a nervous chuckle, starting to feel the space close in on her.

“ _Oh_ , there’s someone, isn’t there?” Her mom says it as though she’s just figured it out, as though there's anything _to_ figure out to begin with.

“What?” Max blinks. Talking about these things are always so nerve-wracking.

“I guess it’s to be expected. You’re probably meeting all sorts of boys while working on the play,” Mom says, maybe misunderstanding Max’s reaction. “Promise me you’ll let us meet him over dinner sometime.”

She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to say, and Mom sounds so happy for her. So, she just plays along, “Uh, yeah. I’m sure… _he’ll_ like that.”

 _It’s not really a lie_ , she tells herself. Somehow.

But she can’t help but think it’s not a coincidence that _he’ll_ and _hell_  are spelled the same.

 

 

But besides the call from home, everything seems to be going smoothly today.

Stella’s back, and Max made her promise to spend some time with her and Kate this week. And Kate is in a better mood than usual. _Good job, Max!_ is written across the top of her latest math test, and, when she’s in her Photography class, she can’t help but grin at the encouraging comment on the assignment passed back.

“Woah, Max,” Alyssa peers over at the photo series. “That’s really good. No wonder you got an A.”

Things _are_ actually pretty good. Well, as good as they _can_ be with how topsy-turvy her world’s been since October.

“Thanks,” Max says, sensing a bonding opportunity. “I’d love to see yours, too, if that’s not too weird.”

“I just got a B-minus,” Alyssa frowns, pushing her assignment towards Max. “Nothing special.”

Max looks over the photographs, and, no, they’re not world-shattering. The series’ theme is landmarks of Arcadia Bay, which every Blackwell student knows is code for _I had no other ideas and it was due the next day_. But the photos are special, too, in their own way. Max always likes seeing other people’s work. It’s a look into their worldview, and there’s always this niggling thought at the back of her mind that, maybe, if she had considered Jefferson’s style a little more, she would have figured him out.

She thinks a lot about what she would have done, if she just figured it out a little sooner. From Rachel Amber’s disappearance, Mark Jefferson, her powers, the feelings for her childhood friend, to even going back to Arcadia Bay _before_ Rachel and Chloe. But, even when she went back to the past, Max broke more than she fixed.

And yet Max, of all people, was given the rewind.

_Maybe the world wants to be broken._

But the world Alyssa depicts in her photos is anything but broken. There’s none of the rot residents can recognize from three hundred miles away. It’s all glossy finishes and idyllic fantasy, an admirable attempt at postcard photography. _Come visit Oregon’s Arcadia Bay, where foul play is only a day away!_ Then again, if she pretends it’s anywhere else, she actually kinda _wants_ to go there, as strange as it sounds. She points to the one of the lighthouse overlooking the ocean. _Nothing special, she said_. “You say that, but this one is pretty cool, Alyssa. You even managed to get a shot during Golden Hour.”

“I just thought that the sunshine would look pretty,” Alyssa shrugs.

 _You give yourself too little credit_. Max opens her mouth to tell her so.

Right before she can, a folder is dropped on their pile of photos and papers.

Max looks up to see Victoria, arms crossed, who’s trying very hard _not_ to look at them. But Max can see the side of her face where the bruise is supposed to be, probably covered with concealer. Victoria is always covered in this meticulously crafted mask of makeup, and it begs the question how she even finds the time to arrive early everyday. And the question of why she does it. And the question of whether she should. But Max knows any begging questions Victoria would just ignore and deflect.

“Take a look at mine, if you’re not too busy,” Victoria says, and Max can’t help but exchange a look of surprise with Alyssa. Questions lead to more questions, each branching off into two, three, four more.

“Uh,” Max looks back and forth between Alyssa, Victoria, and the folder. She feels like she was just dropped into a whirlwind. “Sure.”

She can feel their eyes on her back as she peruses Victoria’s photos.

Victoria’s theme isn’t clear at first. It’s not surface-level the way Alyssa’s photo set is. At first, she’s not entirely sure what she’s looking at. It’s just shots of people. Max isn’t sure how this is supposed to come together. But then each shot expands the scope, and Max looks closer. Each individual is turned to the same direction. The farther out the shots are, the more the crowd differs but the more they all blend together, too. The final picture just shows a hot mess of different, meaningless dots.

Max considers the loss of individuality, the way people are so blind to one another even though they’re all walking in the same direction. But the direction changes every photo, and it’s clockwise, like they’re just going around in circles, not even getting anywhere. Victoria captures the hopeless aspects of humanity perfectly. Max looks it over again and again, finding more layers the more she thinks about it.  

“Your usual photos are so… Avedon-esque,” Max says, “but these… They go beyond that.”

Victoria’s eyes go wide, her previously crossed arms releasing their hold. “Max?”

“It almost tells a story,” Max says.  “About the- the tragedy of human beings and the way we should relate to each other but don’t even notice each other and, and how we all make up the big picture. The lighting, the composition, it’s all so professional. I would’ve chose different crowds than you, personally, since the color palette gets lost later in the set, but… Gosh, Victoria.”

Victoria blinks rapidly at her, gaze unfocused. She looks down, mouth opening then closing as if she intended to say something but changed her mind. Finally, she manages to break the tension. “I- Right. Thanks.”

“I’d love to get some feedback on mine,” Max tells her, “if _you’re_ not too busy.”

She answers by leaning over Max’s shoulder to take a look at the photo spread. “With yours, the concept is good and the composition is just right, but see right _here_ …”

She’s close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. It dominates the surrounding stenches of ink, paper, and hand sanitizer, and it’s like the room diverges from being just a classroom. It’s a rare place where Max’s and Victoria’s worlds can meet. She’s not sure how that happened, but the thought has her in a whirlwind.

Victoria’s face turns a fraction of an inch towards hers. “You better be listening, Gluteus Maximus, since I’m not saying this twice.”

Max is in a whirlwind, and her stomach is a typhoon.

 

 

“Thanks,” Logan says, turning to Juliet and Sarah. “Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.”

“Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guilde- Guildenstern and gentle _Rosencrantz_.” Dana bites her lip, her eyes shifting from side to side. “Um, sorry. I was in my head there.”

“Twas blatant as the guilty look upon your face!” Mr. Keaton exclaims. “Dear Dana, you’re better than this. I know this is not _anywhere_ near your best.”

“Sorry, I know,” Dana nods. “I know.”

“Start from “ _Both your Majesties,_ ”” Mr. Keaton tells them, and Max shifts in her seat uneasily. This has to be the fifth time they’ve restarted the scene. Max never went to all that many plays, even when she lived in Seattle, so maybe she’s not the best judge of what is or isn’t too much rehearsal time. But she never expected that behind the scenes could be so tedious.

Everything always looks more exciting as a finished product.

“Both your majesties might, by the sovereign power you have of us,” Juliet recites, “put your dread pleasures more into command than to entreaty.”

“But we both obey, and give up ourselves, in the full bent,” Sarah continues, “to lay our service freely at your feet!”

“Thanks,” Logan says again, “Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.”

“Thanks, gentle Guildenstern and Rosencrantz. And I instantly beseech- beseech you instantly to-” Dana then groans in defeat. “Crap.”

Max cringes, feeling a pang in her chest at seeing her struggle. _Boy, am I glad I didn’t try out for the cast_.

“Get into character, and the rest will follow,” their teacher advises, “Remember that Gertrude is seeing her son act like a man possessed. She is concerned- nay, _scared_ of what is happening to her child! Now, we’ll start from the top.”

“Ugh, _again_?” Sarah complains. “I’m getting tired of this scene.”

“Boo-fucking- _hoo_ ,” Max hears Victoria mutter. “That’s theatre. Don’t like it? The exit’s right there.”

“But we shouldn’t be punished for Dana’s fuck-up,” Logan points out.

“And _I’d_ rather we hash it out now than have a mistake ruin opening night,” Victoria retorts with a raise in volume.

“Hey!” Dana crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m close to getting it, alright? Besides, it’s not like any of you have your lines memorized yet.”

“Speak for yourself, Mommy Dearest,” Victoria rolls her eyes.

Max idly wonders if Victoria would be so blunt if it was Taylor having the same problem. 

“Enough, enough,” Mr. Keaton calls out.

“Maybe we should take five,” Stella intervenes, and Max is still so relieved she’s back. She hadn’t even realized how important she was to production until she was gone.

“Good suggestion,” Mr. Keaton says, “You all have Stella to thank for an additional break! Water bottles are by the benches.” Then, he tuts. “Not you, Dana! We have to discuss your delivery.”

Max’s shoulders drop in relief. Taking a bottle for herself, she tips her head back and takes in a big gulp of water.

She soon joins a group sitting in the grass next to the stage, crossing her jean-clad legs as she squeezes in between Kate and some guy in tech named Adam. For once this past month, it’s not raining outside, so they’re making the most of it.

They seem to be playing two truths and a lie, where you, obviously, say two truths and a lie.

“I’m not really good at this sort of thing, but,” Kate concedes, “if I had to guess, I think you’re telling the truth about your hamster. So the lie has to be either that Zach is a good cook or that his favorite musician is Elton John.” There’s a few snickers in the background about the latter, though Max can’t see what’s funny about Elton John.

Zach flashes a lazy smile, “Let’s see if you can figure it out.”

“Hmm, it’s gotta be the Elton John thing, right?” Warren guesses.

“Sounds about right,” Juliet replies with a nod.

But Max knows, from the many, many rewinds. “Zach doesn’t cook. At all.”

Juliet’s head whips toward Max so fast she’s scared that Juliet’s neck snapped. “What?”

Everyone looks at her, and it takes Max nearly a minute to realize it’s _weird_ she knows that. “Uh,” Max says, searching for some way past this. “Just a hunch.”

“Yeah,” Zach says, regarding Max with what might be confusion. “Huh.” He rubs at the back of his neck, and nearly everyone, even Logan, has the social instinct to be quiet. “Not even my girlfriend got that one.”

“Well,” Warren changes the subject with a nervous chuckle. “That makes it my turn, right? Now, don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you guys _just_ because I tutor half of you in Chem.”

Past Warren, Max can see Victoria, far outside the circle, staring straight at her. Max gives her a small, half-hearted wave.

But Victoria scowls and takes a drink of water instead.

 

 

After rehearsal, Juliet swings by Max’s fold-up chair. “Hey, Max,” She greets her cheerfully, but something about her voice seems different than usual.

“Hi,” Max responds. “You guys were great onstage. I think we got a lot of work done today.”

“Yeah, but,” Juliet grimaces, putting her hands on her hips. “I keep thinking about that game over and over in my head, and I don’t get it.” Her arms move to gesture to her. “How did you of all people know Zach likes Elton John? Or that he can’t cook to save his life? _I_ didn’t even know any of that, and I’ve been dating him since before you came to Blackwell.”

“Um,” Max fidgets her hands. “I’m sure he would have told you eventually.”

“I just,” Juliet says, “I know in my gut that you’re hiding something, and I just want to make sure we’re not going to have a problem.”

_Why would we have a problem?_

And, then, it hits her, all at once.

Max gapes at her. Of all the things someone could accuse her of… “Juliet, I- Trust me, I’m not- I’m not into Zachary that way.”

“So you _claim_ ,” Juliet counters, “but then how else would you know stuff like that about _my_ boyfriend?”

Victoria is there, now, and she looks like she was just passing through. “Oh, Juliet,” She chuckles, “You’re _so_ predictable.” Or maybe she’s making it _look_ like she was just passing through. It’s hard to tell with Victoria.

Juliet turns to her with a frown. “What is it, Victoria?”

“You really believe your Romeo _told_ Max any of that? Over some kind of secret lovers’ rendezvous? You may be a reporter, or at least what _passes_ for that around here, but you have no eye for story,” Victoria tells her. “Try this on for size: Logan found out when he was still dating Dana. Dana told Taylor, who told me. I fed the info to Max.” She says it nice and slow, as if she’s speaking to a five-year-old.

“And why would you do that?” Juliet asks.

“Just to fuck with you,” Victoria says. “You actually think this hipster loser is your friend or something, so I thought it’d be hilarious.” Then, she looks at Max expectantly. “And it was.”

Juliet turns to Max, too. “Is this true?”

Both sets of eyes on her are starting to make her squirm. She could tell the truth, basically announcing her disregard for personal boundaries, or she could lie. Victoria’s story is probably a better alternative to, _Uh, actually, I found out from rummaging through people’s dorms during my many escapades of time travel. Did you know that breaking and entering is incredibly easy on campus?_ “Y-Yes, every word,” She says before amending, “Except the “hilarious” part. Obviously.”

Victoria smirks at Juliet, and there’s something about her lips that draw the eye. “And you bought it, hook, line, and sinker.”

Juliet shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Max. I shouldn’t have…”

“Look, it’s okay,” Max tells her with a shrug of her shoulders. “Just don’t assume the worst of people, next time.”

“Yeah,” Juliet ducks her head, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “I’ll make it up to you. Just say the word.”

And she leaves her and Victoria standing there side-by-side.

“Do I even want to know how you knew that stuff?” Victoria’s expression is critical. Max thinks she escaped one interrogation just to fall into another.

“Uh,” Max tries. “Lucky guess?”

 

 

 

That night, Max is quiet, since she could so easily say the wrong thing at any given moment, and she worries that she’s this knot of thin ribbon, constantly threatening to unravel. Like the slightest sway of the breeze will make her break down.

“You were acting weird earlier. Are you… okay?” Victoria asks, blunt sticking through the crook of her fingers. Max can still see the remnants of a bruise on her face, her makeup all washed off for the night.

She isn’t sure what it means that Victoria doesn’t put on makeup for her, but she thinks it’s a good sign.

Max shrugs, “Yeah.”

And Victoria frowns. “You’re a bad liar.”

“You know what they say, “practice makes perfect.””

“Fair enough,” Victoria has to admit. “It’s not like you have to tell me, or whatever. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t.”

“But I want to,” Max says, “someday.”

A few moments pass, where Victoria finally takes a good look at her. She looks down then, hands fidgeting.

“Me too,” Victoria replies, “someday.”

Someday. Max steadies herself on the sound of Victoria saying, _Someday_. She’s not sure if it’s a crutch, something she needs to get by, or if this someday is the top prize on the shelf in the arcade, something she wants desperately to earn, but with the knowledge it’s a far-off possibility. And as time passes, it’s just a comfort to know there’s the tiniest possibility, no matter how far-off. Max could be a kid collecting ticket by ticket in the hope that – maybe, just maybe – the top shelf prize will go home with her.

She looks down at her hand on the carpet, and Victoria’s hand is now hovering just above it. It’s well-manicured and moisturized and callous-free, and the fingers are long, almost elegantly so. Her hand certainly looks elegant next to Max’s, which still has some dirt underneath the nails. If Victoria just lets gravity work its magic, her hand could drop right on hers.

_That’s how it works, right?_

Max looks up at her face, not at the bruise on her cheek, but into her eyes. Maybe realizing Max is looking at her, Victoria meets Max’s eyes in turn, before looking back down at their hands that are almost touching but not quite. Her eyes turn to stone, and her lips twitch. Then, those lips twist into a frown.

She moves away, putting out the blunt on the carpet. She gets up and she leaves Max there without even a single goodbye.

But maybe that far-off possibility just got a little closer.

 

 

 

Nights in her room don’t get better.

Max catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head towards the tapestry from the comfort of her bed. She swallows. The subtle folds shifts, like a tide. Movement. _Please no._

The moments stretch into minutes.

She feels the dread build up as she slides further under the covers. She has the sheets up to her face, nervous fingers clutching the nearest end. For a few spare moments, not a single breath leaves or enters Max Caulfield’s respiratory system. Her heartbeat is deafening in her ears.

_Please, please…_

But, there’s nothing. Whatever she’s waiting for doesn’t happen, and she shuts her eyes with a sigh. But she knows she’s not just paranoid, and she knows it’ll come back another day.

Max knows it’s all just a waiting game.

 

 

 

Juliet shows Max something, to make up for her confrontation last rehearsal.

The graph has dozens of names, and Max can’t even recognize half of them. There’s different colors of string connecting name to name, like a multi-colored web. It stretches across the large board in front of them, lines and names and more lines.

“What is this?”

She finds her name pretty easily. There’s a pink string connecting her name to Warren’s.

“It’s my Valentine’s Day extracurricular. I’m keeping track of who’s into who. See? Warren has a crush on you, so I connect your names in pink.” Juliet points to Dana and Logan. “Logan and Dana are through, so I connect them with purple.”

“Evan likes Alyssa?” And Juliet shakes her head. “Alyssa likes Evan?” Max tilts her head, trying to figure that one out. “Really.”

“Yup, really,” Juliet grimaces, “Believe it or not, I have three trusted sources that can confirm.”

Max’s index finger goes to Dana’s place on the graph. “And you’re dating Zach, so you guys have the red string.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Max’s eyes follow along the paths. Max to Warren in pink. Warren to Brooke in pink. Brooke to Daniel in purple. Daniel then connects to Stella, who connects to Logan. Logan to Dana in red. Max blinks. Logan to Dana in purple. Dana to Trevor in red. Trevor to some other girl in purple. It feels like nearly everybody is here, interlocked and interconnected, like a whole network of shifting dynamics.

In a way, it’s beautiful. Underneath all the bravado and the bullshit, people love and lose and move on, making and remaking themselves in the process. But there’s something, or rather someone, missing.

She finally finds Victoria’s spot.

There’s not a single string connecting her to anyone else.

Juliet must catch what Max is staring at, since she continues. “I dug all I could find on Victoria. Literally, all I have on her are the sexts she used to try and drive me and Dana apart.” Max remembers that, and she can’t help but speculate on whether she helped them in this timeline, too. She wishes this Max had written everything down in more detail. “And, considering what she did with _you_ , I’m guessing that was more about me than Zach. There’s been nothing else between her and Zach since, so it didn’t seem right to use the red string or even the purple string. And, well… I didn’t include Mr. Jeffershit on here, for obvious reasons, so no pink string either.”

“There’s nothing else?” Max turns to her. Something about this rings false to her. Victoria’s in the Vortex Club. How could she not have any hook-ups? That’s what high school parties are about, or at least that’s what they’re supposed to be according to rumors.

“This is what happens when you rule out of fear, Max,” Juliet lectures, stretching out her hand so dramatically that it reminds her of Mr. Keaton. The hand curls, grasping at air. “People may respect you, but they won’t love you.”

Max’s fingers idly trace the letters of _Victoria Chase_ on the chart.

Max doesn’t love her, but she’s not ruled by fear, either.

 

 

 

When Victoria and Max are sitting in their spot (because, after a while, just a spot for them to smoke becomes _their_ spot), Max feels something brush against the edge of her hand.

She looks down to see Victoria’s hand, next to her own. It’s well-manicured and moisturized and callous-free, and the fingers curl into her palm and splay outward with a certain grace that Max can’t replicate no matter how hard she tries. But it’s right next to her less-than-graceful hand nonetheless, and, with them side-by-side like this, the hands look _right_ together, despite their differences.

Max tosses a glance at Victoria, who startles at Max’s notice. Victoria removes her hand, first fisting it into her other palm, which closes around it like a vice. Then, she clasps her hands in her lap. Her body goes still. Max thinks it might stay like that, before she finally moves again. Victoria settles for crossing her arms, and she’s looking away, far away into nothingness.

And Max wants her to look at her again.

 

 

 

Max stares at the ceiling. “We can’t stay here forever, Chloe.”

They have to pack and get out of this place _some_ time. Wasn’t this trip for LA, anyways? They’re still over three hundred miles from the destination. They’re still here with Steph and her apartment and all the things left unsaid between them.

“I know,” Chloe says, pulling her close. “We need to save up some money, though. And Steph’s crazy hospitality only goes so far.” Her hug is snug and comforting. Chloe's hugs really are the best. “You need to stop picking fights with her, Max.”

“She started it,” Max says, but the moment that leaves her lips she knows it was the wrong thing to say.

“Max,” Chloe scolds. “Fuck, I know I’ve used that excuse more times than I can count but… Max, this is serious business. We can’t run out of her good will when we’re this close to what we need.”

“I just don’t want to lose you,” She admits, “I feel like ever since we got here there’s been this wall between us. I guess the wall was always there, but I thought I was inside it _with_ _you_.”

“You _are_ , Max,” Chloe says. “I love you. You know that. I’m just hella wor-”

“Prove it,” Max breathes, pulling out of her grip to climb on top of her. Her hands reach out to touch her face, her fingers trembling. “Please, Chloe, prove you love me.” She knocks their foreheads together. “Please.”

Chloe tilts her face up, meeting Max’s hungry mouth, and she feeds her.

Their mouths consume, consume, consume, and it’s not chaste like their early kisses either. It’s hot and heavy, and they’re _here,_ they’re alive. Max licks at her lips, and she can taste her own, alcohol-laced saliva mixing with Chloe’s. Soda and wine and Chloe and Max swirling around in each other’s mouths. Max comes up a moment, for breath, before diving right back down into the kiss. Chloe joins her with a nibble on the lower lip, and Max slides her tongue back in. Their tongues meet again, like old friends, and they want more. They still hunger.

Max unbuttons Chloe’s flannel eagerly, or maybe the better word is _desperately_. Hungrily. A man in the Sahara Desert, dying of thirst, spots a cool, blue pool of water. Max is him. Chloe is him. And this is them running to the lake’s edge.

“Wait,” Chloe breaks the kiss, “You’re sure you _want_ this, Max?”

But maybe the lake is a mirage.

“Yes, I _want_ this,” Max says, “Do you?”

“For the right reasons,” Chloe prompts her.

“ _Yes_ , for the right reasons,” Max tells her.

Chloe pauses, and Max can hear her swallow. “And you haven’t been drinking… right?”

Max threatens to unravel at the way her voice breaks. “I’m not drunk,” because that’s not technically a lie. “ _Please_ , Chloe.”

Chloe pulls her back in, and the lake is there. It’s there, it’s real, and they _drink_.

Chloe is pulling down Max’s pajama pants, while Max makes quick work of Chloe’s shirt. She pulls the two ends apart and Chloe’s arms through the sleeves, Chloe’s thumbs circling Max’s hipbones in gentle encouragement. She lifts her hips to make it easier for her, and, soon enough, her pants are off and Chloe’s torso is bare. It’s strange to touch Chloe with the knowledge they’re going _all_ the way. So many moments she’d mapped out in her head that she never got to try, and it’s a little like knowing the notes to your favorite songs but only now getting the chance to play them.

And then, Chloe moans when Max does that _thing_ with her tongue she did on accident once, during one of their makeout sessions. Max relishes in the wear and tear of her voice. “Max,” She says when they break for air again.

“Chloe,” Max says back, moving her lips to Chloe’s neck and collarbone. Then, her shoulder, her breasts. She’s not sure there’s a single inch of Chloe she doesn’t love. Finally, her lips are back on Chloe’s, drinking her in once again. Chloe bites at her mouth in the dark, and Max responds by licking at her top lip and teeth.

Chloe’s hands are up Max’s shirt, making their own little explorations. Drinking in her body the way Max has fantasized for God knows how long. Max breaks from the kiss to take off her own shirt. “Mmm,” Chloe groans, “ _Shit_ , Max.”

She sits up, throwing her shirt who-knows-where, and she feels Chloe pull herself up to meet her there. Max rests her forehead against Chloe’s. “Oh, Chloe,” She breathes.

“Is this some strip version of Marco Polo?” Chloe quips, her exhale tickling at their lips like smoke, and Max laughs.

“Maybe,” Max tells her, guiding her hand down her stomach. “Do you think you can find what you’re looking for?”

Chloe enters a finger inside her, “Think I already did.”

Suddenly, Max feels a small jolt through her whole body, a shockwave of pleasure reverberating through every cell. Almost a sound wave. _Music_. Chloe does it again and again, reaching the perfect rhythm for them. Not too slow and not too fast, they reach higher and higher.

“Fuck,” Max breathes. “Chloe, Chloe… Ahh, god, _Chloe_ …”

And Chloe knows, better than anyone, how to play Max like a fiddle.

 

 

 

Max wakes covered in sweat and maybe something else, too. She swallows as she tries to settle her heartrate, but it doesn’t settle, not after a dream like that. She sits up and draws her legs towards her, wrapping her arms around them. She’s not sure if she wants to cry or if the additional wet texture will be too much. Wet on her arms, her chest, between her legs, now on her face too.

She only lets out a few tears before she raises her hand to wipe them off.

Why did she have to have those dreams, of all dreams? Why couldn’t she dream about normal things, like failing a test or getting a cool car or something? Normal things would be great for once. Why was it always about lost love and death with her? She throws a glance towards the covered mirror. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s Other Max fucking with her. Fucking her with…

Or, just a possibility, this is the price that comes with trying to be an Everyday Hero. No wonder the girl’s last name is Price.

“Or maybe,” Max mutters under her breath, “I just _really_ need to get laid.”

But that thought feels like a betrayal and a little like a lie, too, so she buries it deep and falls back to sleep.

 

 

Max is still haunted by the dream the next day.

She doesn’t even record it in the dream journal, since it seems too personal to even write it out in graphite. Graphite is transient. On a whim, you can just erase it, and something like this can’t just be erased, rewound like it never happened. She won’t allow it. There’s a reason she didn’t rewind their first kiss away, after all. Besides, what if Other Max got her hands on the journal? The precious moment would just be another feature in her sideshow of horrors. No, Max is going to keep the moment private. No one is allowed to take that from her, not even herself.

It’s on her mind until her stomach rumbles. Seniors can technically leave campus for lunch if they fill out the right paperwork, but she’s too tired to go to the bus stop. Instead, she gets food on campus, where it’ll be quick and easy. Lately, lunch seems to be the one thing in her life that _is_ quick or easy.

She’s not sure where to sit, so she leaves the cafeteria with the to-go container of veggie burger, heading out into the rain. Her burgundy umbrella stretches out above her.

She thinks she hears something, so she follows the sound. She can hear her heart beating in her chest.

When she reaches a corner, she peers around to see what’s going on. 

“Look, please- Just let me talk to him.” It’s Warren on the phone. Max lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.

He’s seated below the shade of the building, shielded from the rain. He probably forgot his umbrella, or something like that. “Uh, yeah, yeah I’ll wait.” Another pause. “Okay. Thanks.” He stands from his seat, and he starts pacing. This could be a personal call. If that’s what it is, she really should go.

But Max waits and she waits, and she almost leaves before Warren breaks the silence.

“Hey, Nate- _Nathan_.” He stops pacing. “I thought I’d- I thought I’d give a call. I asked my buddy Max about some… stuff.” A few moments of silence follow. “Just some case details. I wasn’t sure how much I believed what you said.”

There’s another pause.

“If I thought you were lying,” Warren insists, “I wouldn’t have come back. I _thought_ that maybe you were misremembering, or remembering what you _wanted_ to remember. Maybe lying to _yourself_ , but I knew you weren’t lying to _me_.”

Max frowns. She’s never considered what story Nathan’s telling. She hasn’t really kept updated on him, only on the case details that relate to him. Still, the fact that Warren doesn’t believe he’s lying means something. At least, she hopes it does.

“Now? I don’t know. I think I believe you.” He looks down at the ground. “I _want_ to believe you. You don’t exactly make it easy, though.”

He turns his head towards her, so she ducks back around the corner. She lets her head lean against the wall behind. She lets out a breath of relief.

“Yeah, well,” She can hear Warren say. “Blackwall’s the same, I guess.”

“Uh, yeah! Are you- Are you _kidding_?” Warren then stretches the truth so far Max is surprised it doesn’t snap in two. “People miss you, you asshole. You’re all anybody can talk about! So just focus on your recovery and your testimony. Don’t worry about anything else.”

She peers around the corner once more and catches a peek of him looking down at his phone.

It seems like Max isn’t the only one being haunted by what could be but isn’t.

 

 

In her dorm, she notices something’s off. Correction: something’s off _again_.

The tapestry’s edge moved while Max was gone. It must have. It only covers _half_ the mirror now.

She frowns, sliding it back in place. Still, that isn’t enough. It could easily threaten to expose her again. Her only protection from herself could be uncovered in an instant. A draft from her window, or a curious guest, or maybe even Max brushing against it on accident. It’s too risky to leave it like this.

She takes a tack from her desk and pins the corner of the tapestry to the wall and the other end to the bulletin board, splaying it across the mirror’s surface with a confident permanence.

Better safe than sorry.

 

 

Max finds Victoria at night in the dorm hall, as per usual. But it’s as though something changed.

“Hey,” Max greets, rubbing at her arm awkwardly.

Victoria looks up at her, and, just as Max is about to sit down, Victoria gets up. “We’re doing something different tonight.” She says it with intention, and Max can only guess what she has in mind.

She watches Victoria head towards her dorm, and, after a few steps, she snaps her head back at Max. “ _Well?_ ” She reminds her, looking over her shoulder and still managing to look stern as hell. “Are you coming before we die of old age?”

“Okay, jeez,” Max says, keeping her voice to a hush, and she follows her into the dorm room.

It’s been a while since she’s seen it. Not much has changed. The same red pillows are scattered across the bed. The same large posters of Victoria are framed above. Same laptop, swivel chair, television, equipment, but the books she remembers are gone. In fact, the room is practically scrubbed clean of _anything_ Jefferson related.

She spots the few photos she insisted Victoria keep, on the nightstand. Max doesn’t want anything to do with that paradox of a Winter Break photo, and maybe Victoria could get more out of it than her.

Victoria closes her door behind her, and Max crosses her arms over her chest.

“What is this, Victoria?” Max asks.

“I thought you’d have the clues to tell it’s my dorm room, _Poirot_ ,” Victoria shoots back.

“No, I mean,” Max shakes her head, “What are we doing here?”

Victoria bends over, taking some things off a shelf. When she turns around, Max sees her wave a couple DVDs in the air.

“I don’t know about you,” Victoria says, “but sitting around smoking all the time gets boring.”

“So, a movie night,” Max says, and she can’t deny that it’s good idea. No missing girls or handguns or time travel. It’s something normal, maybe even wholesome. Just two teens hanging out watching movies. If they had popcorn, then it’d be perfect.

“No,” Victoria replies, deadpanned, “I was thinking more, _orgy_.” Then, seeing Max going all wide-eyed, she clarifies, “ _Yes_ , Max, a _movie_ night.”

Max rolls her eyes. “What are our options?”

She takes the handful of DVDs from Victoria, idly thinking to herself that DVDs are probably going the way of VCRs soon enough. The thought makes her sad, the way the junkyard makes her sad sometimes, but she looks over a few titles. One of them is a Studio Ghibli film, the trademark anime outlines in a cutesy color palette. Another looks like a really old movie, maybe even silent era. It has a face on the cover with deep, sunken-in eyes and dark, dark hair. And a third one has these pairs of young adults set against orange and green, one of them crossing his arms awkwardly. But then, her eyes spot something interesting.

“Hey,” Max hands a different DVD case to Victoria, “This girl kind of looks like you.”

“Ah, Jean Seberg in _Breathless_ ,” Victoria says as she takes in the cover with a strange familiarity, the way Chloe used to touch pictures of Rachel. And, maybe Max is imagining it, but is that a smile?

That settles it. “We should watch this.”

Victoria looks up at her as though _she_ just suggested an orgy.

“You don’t mind subtitles?” Victoria asks, with a frown, looking at Max with uncertainty.

But Max Caulfield won’t be deterred.

“We’re watching it, Victoria,” She insists, crossing her arms over her chest.

For a moment, she thinks Victoria will shoot back with a typical snarky remark, but she doesn’t. She just nods and puts the disc into the DVD player. Max feels herself deflate, the helium escaping into whatever vortex the real Victoria Chase is hiding out in. Or maybe this is the real Victoria, and the one in her head is just taped together snapshots of a performance.

Max sets the rest of the movies aside and sits on the floor, her back against the side of the bed.

Victoria plops herself down on the duvet with the remote in hand, her leg just barely grazing Max’s arm. She hits play, and they settle into their seats.

But then, Max realizes what’s missing. “I think you forgot something.”

Victoria leans over to look down at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t have a movie night without popcorn,” Max waggles her eyebrows.

“Are you-” Victoria’s eyes narrow, and she looks like she’s tempted to bury her alive. Fill her mouth with dirt so not another word leaves her lips. But she gets up from her seat anyways. “Fine.”

She goes to the corner of the room, her arms moving around in a large bin. Max notices she doesn’t bother pausing the movie, even as she fetches the package and sets the timer on the microwave.

Max can hear the hum of the microwave just underneath the movie’s dialogue. But Max can’t speak French, so her eyes try to focus on the subtitles onscreen. It’s been a while since she’s had to keep up with text onscreen. Suddenly, then, someone actually speaks in English. Hope springs eternal, a scene in English? The microwave beeps.

Only for the next conversation to take place in French.

Max curses the movie internally as Victoria plops herself down next to Max on the floor, settling the popcorn between them. Max grabs a handful to munch on. _I can break the New Years resolution just this once_. It’s salty and sweet on her tongue, just how she likes it.

And Victoria is reciting the dialogue. “Oui, c’est idiot, je t’aime.” In _French_. “Je voulais te revoir pour savoir si te revoir me ferait plaisir.”

The popcorn practically falls from her mouth in shock.

“You have the movie memorized?” Max can’t help but grin at the thought. Victoria Chase, the queen bee of Vortex Club, loves a movie so much she has it _memorized_. There’s a joke in there somewhere, and, even though she doesn’t know what it is, she feels like she found it regardless.

Victoria scoffs, “What? I can’t know the lines of an iconic film?”

Max starts laughing. She can’t help herself. Something about Victoria caring _that_ much about some old, French movie is kind of perfect. Victoria, who acts like she’s above it all, clings to her media as much as anyone else. This is her _Cannibal Holocaust_ , her _Bladerunner_.

“You laugh, but people study this in _film_ school, ignoramus,” Victoria tells her, tilting her chin up into the air. It’s so dorky and pretentious and so totally _Victoria_. “It’s not something to laugh at. It’s something to appreciate.”

“That’s not- That’s not why I-” Max shakes her head, trying to contain her laughter and failing. “Don’t mind me! I just-” Finally, she manages to stifle the laughter with a smile. “I just think it’s really _human_ of you.”  

Victoria rolls her eyes. “What else would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Max says, “but it’s nice to have evidence you’re flesh and blood after all.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Victoria returns her attention to _Breathless_.

 

 

 

“Why won't you sleep with me,” the subtitles say, in black and white text underlined across the black-and-white film.

Max licks her lips, getting a craving again.

“Because I'm trying to find out what it is that I like about you.”

She considers reaching into the bag of salty, delicious popcorn. _I can break the New Years resolution one more time_. But she’ll probably be telling herself that the next time, then the next time. Still, life is short, and she reaches into the bag, anyways. When she collides with something that is definitely not popcorn, she looks down and has a realization.

Victoria’s hand and Max’s hand had reached for the bowl at the same time.

Max can feel her heart skip a beat. She looks at Victoria, and Victoria looks back at her. She blinks. Victoria blinks. She bites her lip. Victoria bites her lip.

They stay like that, two mirror images.

The character onscreen says something in French. Probably something suitably dripping in sexual tension. But they are not watching the screen or its subtitles, and the words are just sound waves from the stereo system.

Max swallows and decides she should look away first. Someone has to. It may as well be Max.

It’s not until the characters have their sex scene that Max remembers the popcorn.

 

 

 

“So?” Victoria gets up when the credits roll, and she presses the eject button. “What did you think?” Her voice is rife with expectation.

“I see why you like that actress so much,” Max explains. “She’s really pretty, and her character plays it cool. I’d crush on her, too, if this was my favorite movie.”

Victoria places the disk delicately into its case. ““ _Crush?_ ” _God_ , you’re juvenile.” Victoria is quick to clean up, throwing the now empty bag of popcorn into the trash bin and straightening out the DVD shelf. It’s odd to her, a stark contrast to Warren’s strewn about CDs and flashdrives and Chloe’s piles of sentimental clutter. “What is your favorite movie, anyways?”

“I don’t know,” Max shrugs. “I like a lot of movies. Maybe Donnie Darko?” 

“Hmm,” is all Victoria says in response, and somehow the ambiguity is more nerve-wracking than her antagonism. At least Max knows what to do with Victoria’s mean streak. It’s familiar. It’s the status quo. If a snake bites you, you’re not that disappointed since snakes _bite_. But, if a snake cuddles up to you, you have to confront the fact your reality has changed. And, well, Max’s reality _has_ changed.

Victoria goes to her closet at the opposite end of the room. When Max turns her head, she catches sight of a mirror, and, for a moment, her heart starts to seize. She stares in shock, watching for the inevitable twitch to give her away. A smile, a wink, a shift, something.

Just the idea of Other Max ruining this night, of all nights, has her shaking.

But nothing happens, and her heartbeat goes back to its usual pace. _Maybe this is a safe space._

“Could I…” Max wraps her arms around her bent legs. “Could I stay here?”

Victoria hangs the pajamas from the closet door’s handle. “Aren’t we a little old for slumber parties?”

“No, I…” Max rests her chin on her knee, watching Victoria slip on a sweatshirt over her lacey tank top. She slides on these satin pajama pants under her skirt, and, before she knows it, the skirt’s on the floor. Max feels guilty, if only a little. “I just can’t be alone tonight.”

Victoria doesn’t say anything.

“Victoria, I’m scared,” Max admits, voice something like a shudder. “Please.”

And Victoria sighs and flashes her a pointed look. “You don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

She climbs into bed, pushes the blankets aside, and scoots over, giving Max a space.

“Okay,” Max says, climbing in beside her.

“Okay,” Victoria echoes back to her.

Victoria stretches her arm past Max, just barely reaching the lamp. The light stutters out, leaving them in darkness. She lays down once more, facing away from her. “Good night, Max.”

And Max waits for sleep to take her.

 

 

 

Max wakes up from a dreamless sleep in Victoria’s dorm room.

She immediately looks to her right.

Victoria is not under the covers with her. She’s not at the computer, either. Max is tempted to check the closet, too, but what would she need to hide in a closet for? She obviously isn’t here.

Max crawls toward the window and peeks through the blinds. Droplets of water dot the outside surface, but she doesn’t hear any drizzling. It must have stopped a while ago.

Some people like the rain. It can be the light sensation of water colliding with surfaces, and Max has to admit the noise be pretty soothing. For others, rainy days give them the opportunity to take out their coziest rain boots and stomp about in puddles of water, satiating some primal instinct to disrupt the little reflections of sky. Cold weather also gives people the excuse to stay home and warm their hands by the fire. They avoid the traffic and dodge their outside world obligations all in one swoop.

But Max? Max loves the way everything looks right _after_ it rains.

It’s because rainfall is a release of sorts. This may be inconvenient, something to prepare for and avoid when possible, but it’s necessary. The world needs rain, for crops and water supply and life itself. And the water can’t just remain as moisture in the clouds. Something has to give. It’s cyclical. Neverending. Max likes things that don’t end.

Outside, she can see the darkened, damp leaves of the plants that are usually a shade of cheery apple green.  The pavement beside the grass is greyer somehow, and the benches lay there unloved. The aftermath is a spell of shadows, covering the whole of the town. Darkened and dreary and dead silent. It’s lonely, but it’s sedated and serene, like the calm before a storm. It’s beautiful in one way that a sunny day isn’t. Sunny days are bright and beautiful and full of promise, but rainy days are cleansing and

Is that her?

That looks exactly like the back of Max’s head, and there’s a jacket she owns in her closet. She squints and angles her head differently, hoping the figure just caught the light wrong. But then she sees Warren saunter up to the girl, rain-drenched flowers in hand, and she takes the flowers from him. When she turns to smell them, she has Max’s face.

Max is watching herself from the window.

 _What the hell is this?_ Her brow creases.

“Knock, knock,” Victoria says just as Max registers the click of the door opening. As her eyes focus on the scene again, the weird Max and Warren doppelgangers are gone.

But Victoria’s coming in, she reminds herself. _Act natural_. “Who’s there?” A corner of her lip turns upward despite herself.

“You know who,” Victoria replies, dropping her keys on the table. The clinkity clinks of the keys remind Max of ringing bells, the tiny ones people put on Christmas trees.

“You know who,” Max continues the joke, “ _who?_ ”

“Someone you know who’s going to _kill_ you if you’re not ready for rehearsal,” Victoria punctuates with an eye roll.

_How long was I asleep?_

Max gets up immediately. “Shit, I didn’t-”

“ _Of course_ you’re still in your pajamas. Were you just fucking around in here all day?” Victoria looks her up and down, bewildered. “Don’t you have a life of your own?”

“I, well,” Max swallows, since that’s actually a good point. “I didn’t mean to? I guess I was waiting for you to come back.”

“Ugh, seriously.” Victoria pinches the bridge of her nose. “Get ready, sleep in, whatever! Just do it in your own dorm. I’m going to rehearsal.”

Grabbing her script and a water bottle from atop the nightstand, Victoria leaves Max there again, practically slamming the door shut. The sound reverberates through the room, a more personal kind of earthquake. It leaves the same destruction, just not anything visible.

Maybe they’re just meant for the night, where there’s no responsibilities, no reputations, no need to reach out and touch what shouldn’t be touched. The night where it’s just Victoria and Max and nobody else.

 

 

 

Dana looks down at the folded script in her hand. “I’m not sure how to play Gertrude,” she says, “or even how to get into her headspace to begin with. What’s motivating her?”

Max can’t help but eavesdrop. Old habits die hard.

“I don’t know,” Juliet nudges Dana, “What _would_ drive a woman to help kill the father of her child?”

Dana shrugs. “Who knows? Could be it was a plot between her and her lover. I can’t see how she wouldn’t have known about the murder.” But then she lets out a bitter breath of laughter. “Oh _god_. With Logan as my “lover,” how the hell am I gonna pull this off?”

“Just pretend you’re not you for a while,” Juliet suggests.

“But that’s not my style,” Dana says. Her free hand hits the script’s surface, a light tap against paper. “I immerse myself into the character, totally and completely. It’s what I would do and how I would feel. Otherwise, it’s like _lying_.”

Juliet laughs, “Babe, acting _is_ lying.”

“It is _not_ ,” Dana insists. “Acting is playing a role! It’s living out a truth the best you can, and _my_ truth is called “staying the hell away from my ex-boyfriend.” I just don’t know what I’m gonna do. Maybe if Hayden was playing Claudius, I could pull it off. We played love interests _before_. But I hate Logan’s guts after he- _you know_.”

“Uh, maybe,” Max interrupts, “you could play it like you’re manipulating him? I don’t know, maybe Claudius gives her more power than her other husband. Hamlet wants to kill Claudius anyways, so it’s not like your characters need to be soulmates.”

Juliet snaps her fingers with a grin. “Yeah!” She nods and turns back to Dana. “Think about it: Gertrude probably doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell convincing them to place _her_ on the throne, so she gets someone to kill her husband, marries him, then she has someone more, I don’t know, amenable.”

“And, you wouldn’t have to be lovey dovey with Logan,” Max adds.

“So, Claudius as Gertrude’s puppet ruler?” Dana taps her chin. “I like it. A little convoluted, but I like it.”

“Attagirl!” Juliet encourages, then she flashes Max a smile. “You too, Max. Good job!”

Max shrugs. “Always happy to help. What was that stuff you were talking about earlier? About, acting and lying and...”

“Juliet seems to think that acting is about lying through your teeth,” Dana says, shooting her friend a glance. “But really, Max, acting is noticing a real experience and trying to capture it through your performance.”

“Like taking photos,” Max points out.

“Yeah, kinda,” Dana agrees, “It’s a snapshot into someone else’s life.”

“But it’s not _your_ life,” Juliet points out, flicking at the air, “It’s an imitation. Actors are paid to pretend to be someone they’re not. Lying as an artform, basically.”

“A lot of people around here pretend to be someone they’re not,” Max shrugs.

 _Even me. Especially me_.

She never thought of it as lying before, but maybe someone could lie without knowing it. Or they say the lie so much they believe it.

_The storm never happened. Chloe is alive. I don’t want to die._

_Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine._

Yeah, Max doesn’t believe it either.

 

 

 

Everything around her is dimly lit, a near darkness that makes her nearly stumble over a nearby piece of furniture or some other object. Max blinks, picking it up and feeling it out. It’s a flimsy kind of plastic, the kind that, that,

 _This is a stage prop_ , she realizes. She reaches out and grasps velvet, soft and plush against her skin. So there’s the curtain, and here’s a chair to wait in. She just needs to find the stage. She pushes through until she can find light. It has to be around here somewhere.

She manages to push through until she finds an opening, but she doesn’t expect what she sees.

“Now, mother, what’s the matter?”

It’s Chloe, in Elizabethan costume. Except the doublet is blue, and she thinks Mr. Keaton says that the costume will be green, or red, but the more she tries to remember, the murkier her memories feel.

“Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.” And, Joyce, too?

Chloe points to Joyce. “Mother, uh, _you_ have my father hella offended.”

Why does this feel so familiar?

Then, in an instant, Chloe is dressed in black, feathers and glitter and all sorts of things Max only barely recognizes. “Is there more toil?” She turns to someone, not Joyce but someone else, but Max can’t make them out. “Let me remember thee what thou has promised.”

Wait, this isn’t how the scene goes. Max isn’t a Shakespeare buff, but she knows _that_ much.

Then, she hears static. Chloe opens her mouth, and there’s just _more_ static.

Everything flickers around her, and she sees crimson drip down Chloe’s forehead from the gunshot wound.

Then, another flicker, and the gunshot wound is gone.

She’s in the Hamlet costume again, and she’s looking straight at Max. “Have you forgot me?” Max can make out through the static.

“No,” Max breathes, “ _Never_.”

And Max tries to sort through what just happened, the costume changes and script changes and everything else, but the more she thinks, the farther away it gets. And the farther away it gets, the darker her surroundings become.

Max wakes up.

 

 

 

They sit there in pregnant silence and the glow of their lit blunts, until Max finally confesses. “Valentine’s Day is coming soon,” and Victoria looks at her, in surprise, so Max continues. “My mom is expecting me to have a boyfriend, or- I don’t know. I let her believe I had one, and, you know, I _don’t_. I don’t even have a Valentine to begin with.”

“It’s just another day. Everyone knows V-Day doesn’t actually mean anything,” Victoria’s lip twitches. “You don’t need to stress out over it.”

“I guess I just- Time keeps _passing_ ,” Max says. “It’s all going so fast and, and I feel like I’m just getting farther and farther away, even though I don’t want to. I just, I want to stay _put_.”

Victoria rests her hand on her bent knee. “I want to go back.”

“Back when?” Max asks before inhaling from the end of her blunt.

“I don’t know,” Victoria says, her eyes like glass. “Before the court case? Before Jefferson and Nathan were caught. Before we all knew the truth. When I still thought that I… When I still thought I had everything figured out. Rule the school, outshine the lame hipster girl, become famous photographer, _profit_.”

Max doesn’t think she herself could handle going back, not when she’s just going to lose everything once time is up. But some part of her wants the second chance despite all that, since at least she’d have Chloe again. Not in her dreams, but in the flesh, taking the world by storm. They could meet in the parking lot again and start over like strangers, or they could go back further to elementary school when that fateful spitball first landed in Max’s ponytail. They could go back to the beginning and do it all over again. This time it would be Max and Chloe and nobody else.

But Victoria doesn’t have a Chloe Price.

“Were you,” Max searches for the right word, “happy?”

“No,” Victoria says, and Max can tell she means it. “But I-” She cuts herself off suddenly, and Max wants to reach out and- Something. She wants to do _something_. “To be real with you, I don’t- I don’t know if I ever _had_ a time in my life like that.”

Max can’t believe that. “Not even when you were a little kid?”

Victoria lets out a breath of almost laughter, like the notion is so ridiculous that Max ought to do stand-up. “Hell to the no. I didn’t get to do the things that kids get to do. There were so many expectations, and I didn’t exactly live up to them.” She sighs, and her breathing turns uneven and Max can feel her start to unravel. “Now, my hero is actually my worst nightmare, and turns out my- my _best friend_ helped him. Now, he’s gone, moved to some high-security _whatever_ out of town. I’m stuck in this two-bit hell town ‘til graduation. Rachel Amber is _dead_. Taylor’s mom is back in the hospital. _My_ parents are more disappointed than ever. And, part of me is scared that- that I’ll never have a time in my life where- where I’m just… _happy_.”

Max wants to say she’s sorry, but what does that even mean? _I’m sorry, life sucks. Oops!_ No, sorries are for mistakes. The way Victoria feels isn’t some mistake to erase with the rubber end of a pencil. This, whatever this between them is, isn’t a mistake either, and, even if it was, Max didn’t make that mistake. Victoria didn’t make it either. Whatever the mistake is, it started before either of them could do anything about it.

“Maybe, it’s Arcadia Bay,” Max can’t help but suggest, her mind going back to Alyssa’s photos. “I don’t know anyone here that’s really happy.”

“And what if it’s not?” Victoria challenges her. “What if I leave this shithole and it’s just the same thing, just transplanted somewhere else? What if being unhappy is just who I _am_?”

This sounds startlingly familiar.

Max puts her hand over hers. “Then, you can give me a call, and I’ll be there for you.”

“Why?” Victoria asks in disbelief and out of breath.

“Because we might not be friends, but I know that feeling,” Max says, “so now we don’t have to go through it alone.”

Only after this does Victoria’s hand writhe underneath Max’s, entwining her fingers with hers.

They hold hands like that for a while. Victoria can’t bring herself to look at her, but they hold hands.

 

 

 

Max’s phone buzzes a few hours later with a notification. She leans over and checks her messages.

**I’m sorry Max. I have to spend more time on my Design 101 assignment. Can’t go paint with you and Stella.**

It all comes back to her. She’s supposed to help Kate and Stella with painting the sets that morning. Or, she guesses, just Stella now.

Victoria looks at her, the glow of the phone casting them in faint blue.

“What is it?” Victoria asks, leaning over to see what’s on the phone. But she already left her messages in favor of the start screen.

“Do you want to do something fun?” Max smiles, putting away her phone, and she can see Victoria’s brows knit together.

“Why do I have the suspicion your definition of fun is lightyears away from mine?” Victoria says, eyeing her with only a few blinks to interrupt the flow. “Don’t tell me we’re going to be helping old grannies cross the street.”

“No,” Max answers. “Not _that_.”

“Rescuing puppies from a tree,” Victoria suggests flatly as her eyes follow Max getting up from her seat.

“Not that either.” Max offers her her hand. “Come on, you’ll see when we get there.”

Victoria stares at the hand warily.

“Just take my hand, Victoria,” Max assures her. “I don’t bite.”

After another moment of deliberation, Victoria puts her hand in Max’s, and she pulls Victoria up with her. Victoria untangles her hand from Max’s, a brief hesitation as their hands part ways.

 

 

 

When they arrive, Max grabs a couple oversized T-shirts by the door, tossing one at Victoria’s face.

“ _Hey_ ,” Victoria protests. The plume of dust spreads around them like smoke, and she coughs. “What the hell.”

“You’ll live,” Max tells her, sliding on the big purple one. “Today, we’re working on the Act Two, Scene One backdrop.”

“This is your “fun” activity,” Victoria notes, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s relaxing,” Max says. She reaches over at the can of paintbrushes and grabs one by the pointed end. “Just follow my lead, and we’ll be done before you know it.”

She uncaps the various tubes of paint and squeezes out some swatches on the palette.

Out of the corner of her eye, Max sees Victoria shrug off her trench coat.  Then, she takes off her cashmere sweater, revealing the very thin blouse underneath. It hugs at the subtle curvature of her body, sloping down and stopping at her hipbones. Max swallows and refocuses her gaze on the half-finished backdrop in front of her.

When she next glances Victoria’s way, her companion is wearing the large, oversized blue T-shirt. Her eyes are on part of Polonius’s wallpaper, her hand moving the paintbrush in small, almost circular motions to match the continuing pattern. She’s making fluid, quick strokes, with an easy familiarity. As she moves from that part of the wallpaper from another, Max has to force herself not to gawk.

“You’re really good at this,” Max says finally.

“No,” Victoria disagrees, “I just know how to paint.” Her head tilts as she starts to color in a candle. “I used to have a private tutor, actually. So old school she probably shits out Titian pieces.”

Max lowers her hand from her spot on the canvas. “What happened?”

“My parents weren’t happy with my progress,” she admits, with a meaningful pause, “so they fired her.” She looks very focused, or like she’s trying to look focused. It’s hard to tell with Victoria. “I think they just weren’t happy with _me_ , but you can’t fire your daughter. If there was a way, they would have found it. So they fired her.”

“That’s terrible,” Max says because it is. “Did you ever get back in contact with her?”

“Why would I?” Victoria counters, avoiding her gaze like Max will see all her secrets written across her pupils. “She’s a nobody. Probably only agreed to tutor me to leech off my family’s reputation, just like everybody else.”

“She was somebody to _you_ ,” Max frowns, and the lack of eye contact is starting to bug her. “She taught you how to paint.”

Victoria’s hand strays towards another part of the backdrop. “What do you care?” She finally asks, before turning to face her. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“My Winter Break photos have nothing to do with you, but I still let you have a couple.”

Victoria pauses, considering this. “Are you always this nosey?”

“Only when I breathe,” Max retorts, pointing to her nostril with her free hand.

At that, she hears that fondly known breath of almost laughter, and she feels her mouth stretching into a small smile. Still, when it ends, she starts to feel that familiar emptiness once more. So she flicks her brush at Victoria, the speckle of paint landing on the oversized T-shirt over her clothes.

“Hey!” Victoria yelps. “You’re damn lucky I took off my sweater.”

Max flicks at her again. It lands on her designer pants.

“Oh, you are going to _pay_ for that,” Victoria threatens, and she flicks her brush at Max.

When her cheek gets wet, Max touches the spot, and her finger comes away covered in bright green.

Victoria is snickering. Max finds herself grinning too.

“If you’re not careful with that paint,” Max warns, “I’ll need to Van _Gogh_ take a shower.”

Victoria crosses her arms over her chest, trying to stifle her laughter but failing. “God, Max, you’re so fucking cheesy I could eat you on pizza.”

“With pepperoni please,” Max adds, then flicks some of the green on Victoria. “Eat _this!_ ”

Victoria manages to dodge it that time, and she retaliates, splattering red on Max’s shoulder.

“It is _on_ ,” Max grins, smearing the green paint on Victoria’s arm. To which Victoria reacts by dragging the paint brush down Max’s shirt. And Max plants her hand into the swatch of blue paint and throws it at Victoria.

Soon enough, it’s an all-out war, bright colors flying this way and that, but they’re laughing in the chaos. They’re laughing and panting and soon enough covered in paint, splotches of green and red and blue and yellow all over them by the time they’re finished.

Victoria gestures to her body. “Do you _know_ how expensive these pants are?”

“More than my life savings?” Max offers.

“Judging from your Walmart-shopper ensemble, probably _ten_ of your life savings.”

“Walmart has some cute stuff,” Max demures, where she’s trying not to be defensive and failing.

Victoria shakes her head. “Maybe on _you_ it looks cute. But that’s the exception that _proves_ the rule.”

“Wait a minute.” Max takes a step forward. “Did Victoria Chase just pay Max Caulfield a compliment? What _will_ they _say_?”

Victoria scoffs, “Don’t try to make this bigger than it is, Max.”

“In that case,” Max smiles despite herself, “I _won’t_ say you look good covered in paint.”

Victoria takes another step closer. “And, I won’t answer, “you too, loser.”” And she reaches out, picking off a half-dried piece of paint from Max’s bangs, then pushing the lock of hair behind her ear.

Max bites her lower lip. Victoria’s hand feels almost gentle against her ear, the contact so quick it barely registers on her radar, so quick that Max doesn’t reach up to unfold the lock of hair. Some part of her wants to say something, but it’s hard to think of things to say when they’re so close like this and her brain is going through a million thoughts a minute.  

But then, she doesn’t have to saying anything.

Max isn’t sure who kissed who, but their lips are against each other. And it’s the fact that they’re kissing, not who kissed who, that’s on her mind. At first, it’s this skittish, scary thing. The mere act of touching is a big enough hurdle, but, then, then caution is thrown to the wind. Trembling hands steady in certainty that this is right, that this is what they both want.

But it’s not right. They can’t. They shouldn’t.

Max leaves the kiss first because everything about this feels like a betrayal. “We- we…” It was like she was on Cloud 9, and now she’s plummeting down to Earth again. Her feet stick to the ground, back to reality.

Victoria is turning away, panting. “I’m not just gonna _fuck_ you, Max. I’m not a slut.” Her hand shields her mouth, like she needs protecting from Max’s onslaught. Like Max is an invader she needs to defend herself from. Like Max is a threat. She’s not sure why that hurts the most, after all the venom they’ve fed each other over these past months.

Max just says, “I know,” because she’s tired. She was running on pure adrenaline before, but, now, it’s all used up, and her muscles are left aching from the exertion.

“And I’m not a dyke either, so you can stop looking at me like that.”

So very tired.

Max closes her eyes, and she hates that she can still feel Victoria’s lips on hers, a slow burn on her skin. She hates that she likes kissing Victoria. She hates that she wants Victoria to do it again. And she hates that Victoria is the way she is. When did she get like this? When did _Max_ get like this? So much hatred and resentment and fear. Is this what growing up is, waiting for all the hope in your heart to degrade into dust and hoping to whatever higher power there is (or, isn’t) that there’s some meaning to it all?

If so, she wonders when Victoria grew up.

“Say something,” Victoria demands, voice tinged with desperation. “Don’t just stand there.”

“It takes two to tango, Victoria. You kissed me, too,” Max reminds her, wanting to throw it back in Victoria’s face. She wishes she could have the upper hand on Victoria just this _once_.

“Y-yeah? And who’d believe that?” She counters, and, when the light hits Victoria just right, Max swears she sees fear in her eyes. “If you told anyone, I’d just spread around that you kissed me because you have some lame hipster crush on me. You’ll look like an unhinged stalker when I’m done with you.”

Then, those eyes turn to stone, like Medusa. Look into her eyes and you turn to stone, too.

Every time Max thinks she empathizes with Victoria, she does something like this, and Max regrets ever having hope for her.

Max furrows her brows, a tension arising in her temples. She takes off the T-shirt and throws it to the ground. “ _God_ , Victoria, I’m not going to tell everyone. I can’t believe you’re this paranoid.”

She lingers on Victoria for just a moment, her stone cold expression, the look in her eyes as chilly as the weather outdoors, before storming off. Since the storm that didn’t happen, Max finds she’s been storming off more often, Chloe-style. But she suspects that maybe even Chloe would have thought Max’s recent behavior to be a bit much.

Would have. Because she isn’t. Not anymore.

Maybe she wants Chloe to haunt her.

 

 

The next time she sees Victoria is during rehearsal. She arrives right on time for once, which is practically fifteen minutes late when it comes to Victoria Chase. That’s the first clue.

And she has an arm wrapped around her waist.

“Ooh, what’s with the boytoy?” Taylor gushes.

The arm is attached to that techie, Adam. And he has this lazy smile on his face that looks so very punchable.

“We’re dating,” Victoria says, leaning in to peck him on the cheek. Max feels her stomach sink.

Juliet takes out her notepad and starts scribbling down something. “So Victoria’s finally trying out Blackwell’s dating scene.”

_But it’s not your life. It’s an imitation._

Victoria hesitates and cringes whenever he touches her and whenever she goes to touch _him_. Adam might not notice, but Max does. It’s more of a puzzle than a romance.

_Actors are paid to pretend to be someone they’re not. Lying as an artform, basically._

And she keeps sneaking looks at Max as if Max isn’t already watching.

_A lot of people around here pretend to be someone they’re not._

Putting the pieces together, she comes to a realization.

 _This is another lie_.

 

 

 

Victoria doesn’t show up to their usual spot that night.

Max waits for her, and, by the time witching hour ends, she thinks she might never show. But she can’t bring herself to leave the last remnant of these memories. She can’t let this go. So she stays there, waiting for a girl that will never show.

She waits and she waits and she waits.

 

 

 

Max is in a classroom. At first, she thinks it’s Ms. Grant’s.

There’s posters with fun chemistry and physics puns on the walls, and there’s beakers and sinks there too. Max has never been a science person, but the room is earnest in a way that’s comforting.

“Good job, Max,” Stella says, and Max hadn’t noticed that Stella’s with her. Her voice sounds like forced cheer, and the praise makes Max a little uncomfortable. Especially considering she left the backdrop unfinished and didn’t even text Stella a heads-up.

“Thanks, I- uh, I try,” Max replies bashfully.

Stella takes another step forward. “Good job, Max.”

Why isn’t she blinking?

Max takes a step back. “Uh, thanks?”

But then it’s Mr. Keaton’s classroom. Max must have been wrong. The posters are actually for plays, and there’s all sorts of half-finished set pieces around them.

“Good job, Max,” another voice joins her. It’s Juliet.

Max stumbles back. “Um, could you just… Give me some space…”

“Good job, Max,” five more voices add. “Good job, Max.”

Now, they’re in Mr. Jefferson’s class.

And they’re all walking towards her with small, careful steps.

“Good job, Max,” they all say, and Max finally turns to the window to see the storm is ravaging outside, destroying everything she holds dear. A large piece of debris is flying towards the classroom. “Good job, Max! Good job, Max! G̷̲͂o̶͚̎ŏ̶̦d̵͚̍ ̸͇͆j̵͇̀o̷̲͛b̸̥̔,̶͎̿ ̵̧͠M̶̯̑a̴̘͑x̸̣̄!̶̖͂ ”

“No, no,” Max breathes, voice caught among the symphony of speech. “I _fixed_ it.” It’s supposed to stay fixed. “I swear, I fixed it!”

The collision of the debris with the glass creates this immense shattering sound, but the window remains intact. The debris is flying backwards, a reverse to its previous course.

“G̷̲͂o̶͚̎ŏ̶̦d̵͚̍ ̸͇͆j̵͇̀o̷̲͛b̸̥̔,̶͎̿ ̵̧͠M̶̯̑a̴̘͑x̸̣̄!̶̖͂ G̷̲͂o̶͚̎ŏ̶̦d̵͚̍ ̸͇͆j̵͇̀o̷̲͛b̸̥̔,̶͎̿ ̵̧͠M̶̯̑a̴̘͑x̸̣̄!̶̖͂ G̷̲͂o̶͚̎ŏ̶̦d̵͚̍ ̸͇͆j̵͇̀o̷̲͛b̸̥̔,̶͎̿ ̵̧͠M̶̯̑a̴̘͑x̸̣̄!̶̖͂”

She turns back to the classroom, and she’s face to face with herself.

“Good job trying to shut me out,” Other Max sneers. “You really thought you could get rid of me that easily?”

 

 

Max wakes up screaming. Her eyes instinctively look to the mirror in the darkness.

Quickly, she turns on the table lamp for light, an anchor in this sea of shadow.

“No,” Max chokes out. It can’t be.

The tapestry is _gone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Victoria's perspective makes a little more sense after this chapter, even if she goes about everything the *wrong* way.  
> Also, I'm sure you're looking forward to Max finally trying to figure out the weird shit next chapter, yeah?
> 
> EDIT: For anyone curious about those three other DVDs Max saw in Victoria's dorm besides Breathless, there was Kiki's Delivery Service, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and Trainspotting. She probably has more, but those were what Max saw.


	6. Max Loves Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. I've been writing this for months and months. This was a difficult chapter to get through. I wasn't in a good place when I wrote it, going through a lot at home. That's one reason why this is probably the angstiest chapter in the fic (and will likely remain the angstiest chapter in the whole fic... not writing a tragedy here!).
> 
> So why did it take me so long to finish? Well, no answer is really going to satisfy anyone. First came writer's block after I wrote a huge chunk of it, then technical issues, then the reoccurrence of some personal problems in my life, then ad nauseum the excuses and excuses and excuses. Nothing will ever really justify taking so long, so I decided to publish anyways.
> 
> But anyways, back to Max, hm?

For a moment, all Max can do is stare at the mirror, clutching the blankets around her at the opposite end of her bed. She might compare it to being frozen in time, if she wasn’t shaking. If she wasn’t scared to breathe. If she didn’t feel like breaking.

But then she comes to her senses. If it’s between fight-or-flight, then she’s choosing flight. Throwing off the blankets, she grabs her room key and runs to the door, still in her pajamas.

“Shit!” The door handle won’t give. “No! Not now!” She tightens her grip and tries again, to no avail.

So she runs to the window, praying that maybe the fall wouldn’t kill her. But, as much as she pulls and pushes and readjusts her stance, the edge won’t raise. The window remains closed.

Her head turns at a rattling sound, coming from the door.

Max tries her best to pry open the window, heart beating in her chest. “Come on, come on,” She grunts.

The rattling gets louder. Her teeth grind.

“P-please,” is all she can manage, her voice starting to grow hoarse. But it’s like pushing a desk into a wall. There’s no way to get past.

And the sound at the door grows louder and louder.

She can’t even hear her own thoughts.

Just the rattling.

Her eyes water, and all she can do is mouth the word, “No.” Over and Over, until the word doesn’t even mean anything anymore. It’s not even a sound; it’s an empty gesture that she’s deluded herself into thinking is a safety net. Mouth opening then twisting and closing, over and over. All just silent pleading to fall upon deaf ears.

Then, once she thinks she can’t take anymore, it stops.

She turns back towards the other side of the room, her arms falling to her sides.

There’s a knock at the door.

Max can hear her heart skip a beat. No, she found me. She found me. I’m fucked. Her voice is strangled and hoarse when she finally shouts. “Please stop! Just leave me alone.”

“Max, stop what?!” It’s Juliet. “What happened?”

Max risks a glance to her alarm clock. It reads 5:42 AM. She sighs, her fingers combing through her messy bedhead. “Uh-” She steps up to the door, and she opens it just a crack. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“I heard a scream,” She tells her with a frown.

“Just a nightmare.” Max attempts a smile, but Juliet doesn’t mirror the action.

“Quite the nightmare. You woke up half the hall,” but not Juliet, of course. Her hair is wet, so she was probably in the shower. She always did that at insane hours of the day, getting first pick of the stalls. What’s that saying? Early bird gets the worm.

“Right,” She nods, her voice starting to crack again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

She closes the door before Juliet can get another word in. She might try to ask her more about it, and Max isn’t ready to share – not yet, anyways. She doesn’t understand it herself, so how can she expect anyone else to? The accompanying silence feels more foreboding than she thought, a cocoon of solitude. Closing her eyes, Max releases a long breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her back against the wall, she slides down to the floor. Even in her defeat, she doesn’t cry.

Still, if she said she didn’t want to, that’d be a lie.

  
  


“Sometimes as photographers we want to focus on an individual detail that jumps out at the viewer.”

Her nails tap against the desk’s surface. Tap, tap, tap.

Other Max wouldn’t dare come in here, right? Tap, tap, tap.

Max swallows as the words filter in and out, her focus waning. It’s not easy to pay attention in class even when not being tormented by an evil clone, but right now it is fucking impossible. They don’t make self-help novels for this sort of thing.

She can’t help but glance to her left. If she asked, would Victoria protect her? No, her best friend in the world only believed she had time travel powers after she proved it repeatedly. She somehow doubts Victoria would buy that there’s a secret second Maxine Caulfield running around torturing her with what she did in a different timeline, simply on her word alone. Max frowns.

She can’t even get her to look her in the eyes.

So she waits for Mr. Lehrer to prompt them with a question. She’ll raise her hand, and Victoria will have to listen to her. It’s probably not the ideal motivation for participating in class, but this way there’s not much risk. Even if she answers wrong, she’s still holding the whole class’s attention captive, since they can’t move on until she’s done. Hell, it’d probably be better to get it spectacularly wrong, just so that Victoria would have the excuse to mock her.

Is this what desperation tastes like?

“For example, this is Louis Sinco’s The Marlboro Marine. Can anyone tell me what this is an example of?”

Max’s hand shoots up in the air.

“Yes, Max?”

Max’s heart stops for a moment, as the class’s eyes all focus on her.  _ I think it’s using a... punctum? In the eyes? _ She braces herself to answer wrong. “Uh, a photo.”

She sees him visibly cringe, and a few classmates even laugh. “Yes, it’s a photo.”

Max’s stomach rumbles. She hadn’t eaten anything that morning, but, if she had, she might just throw up. The laughter echoes in her ears like a taunt.  


Out of the corner of her eyes, she just sees Victoria staring down at her notebook, scribbling down something. She went to the trouble of humiliating herself for this? Max can feel her limbs starting to shake once more, and she can feel bile climb up her throat. She doesn’t even know if it’d be out of anxiety or spite, but she wants to vomit in front of the whole class. She wants to be sent to the nurse’s office, and she wants Victoria to bring her there, like before. Except she’d wait for Max. It wouldn’t be Warren sitting there with a thousand questions; it’d be Victoria.

And Max would answer every single one.

Tap, tap, tap.

  
  


When the bell ring, ring, rings, Max practically jumps to her feet. 

No, Victoria didn’t react in class, but that doesn’t mean this is over - not by a long shot. After all, Victoria probably didn’t want to make a scene in class. She might be on thin ice with the teacher, considering how rude she’s been to him during class. If so, she’d be lying in wait, for the perfect time to strike. That’s it. It’ll be the hallway. Max rushes out the door before she even knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t even know how she got this reckless. It’s a far cry from her wallflower days.

Speaking of wallflower, the crowd forces her to cling to walls, each wave of teenagers forcing her back into it. Forced to remain in place, she decides to take this moment to look around.

It takes a while for her to spot Victoria’s back among the various students in the crowd. She’s wearing a blue collared shirt under a form-fitting silver sweater today, and her neck is long, sprouting up from the collar with the trademark Victoria Chase grace. Max goes past her among the crowd. She needs to be at the right angle, so that she’ll see her. So Victoria will have her chance to hassle her.

When she sees Victoria’s face, she stops. She barely even registers the way someone nudges past her shoulder as they walk by. Victoria should have seen her by now.

But she doesn’t. And, soon, Victoria is turning towards her locker. It’s like Max isn’t on her radar. It’s like Max doesn’t even exist to her. 

_ No, I don’t know that.  _ She might not be paying attention to her surroundings. Max decides to wait a bit, walk around. So she does. She circles back towards the other end of the hallway before passing Victoria again the other way.

It’s been a few minutes.

Max is watching Victoria, who’s now leaning against the lockers, one arm crossed over her stomach. She should have seen her. But there’s no recognition. None at all. Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, that Adam guy steps up to her locker with a box of chocolates. 

Her stomach rumbles, and she feels like the earth beneath her will crack open and swallow her whole.

  
  


By lunchtime, Max realizes she still has Victoria’s number.

She stares at the photo she set for Victoria’s entry in her contact list. What if Victoria is too afraid to reach out? Max hasn’t needed to text her before, but maybe this is the first time Victoria needs her, that she can give her something Adam can’t.  _ But maybe she wants nothing to do with me _ . Max finds herself shaking. She doesn’t know why she’s shaking, but she is.

She finds herself typing out a message.  **did i fuck this up** She hits backspace. She hits it until the message is gone.

She tries again.  **well maybe it’s not my fault ur uptight** . She stares at the message, tempted to hit the enter button. She hits backspace and erases the message.

Finally, she types out:  **vic, whatever i did i’m sorry ):**

She doesn’t send that one either.

  
  


Max thinks she has it under control by rehearsal, but seeing Victoria’s little performance with Adam is too much for her to bare. Just a few touches, a couple gestures, a mere look are all it takes. Even if she knows it’s all fake, it still manages to rub her raw, and she can’t put a finger on why. Her stomach tosses and turns inside her, exerting the occasional rumble as she casts her gaze aside. If Victoria is expecting Max to tolerate it, she’s got another thing coming.

“Hey, Victoria?” She steps up to her, watching for a sign. Victoria can’t ignore her forever, right?

Adam notices her first. “Hey!” Max forces an acknowledging smile.

Victoria nestles closer to him, posture stiff and unnatural. “Let’s go save Taylor a seat,” then, a pause, “sweetie.”

_ Really? Sweetie? _ Max forces down the retort that’s just begging to be heard about how the only thing that’s sweet is her acting. No, she has to convince her, not give her another excuse to leave. She takes a step closer and reaches out a hand after them. “Wait, could we…” And they’re gone, just like that. “….talk?” They leave her there looking like an idiot.

Her arms fall to her sides.

“Hayden,  _ Hayden _ ! Cruelest of fates, these students test my earnest patience!” It sounds like, while Max is striking out with Victoria, Mr. Keaton isn’t having any luck getting the performances he wants. “You are supposed to be off-book next  _ week _ ! Do you not give a damn?” 

Max doesn’t know him well, but he seems to care about theatre a whole lot. It’s even a little comforting to have someone who cares so much for their craft. She knows what that feels like. 

“Sorry, Mr. Keaton, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal. Remember, this is new for me!” Sure, she doesn’t  _ berate _ people for it, but, still, she gets the thought process behind the behavior. It’s not anything noteworthy, until he says something that unsettles her.

“How are you to keep up with our Miranda at this rate?”

Max squints.  _ Miranda? _ She doesn’t remember anyone like that.

Maybe there’s something in the script about it. If only she didn’t forget her copy at the dorms.

  
  


But, still, fate intervenes, or whatever.

“Hey, Max!” Dana waves her over. “You helped me out with my character. Maybe you can do the same for Taylor?”

Max rubs at her arm, her attention pulled from Dana to Taylor. She remembers Taylor’s anger over Max getting Courtney removed from the play, not to mention what Victoria said about her mom. “I don’t think she wants my help.”

Victoria is placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder, speaking to her in low tones, before walking away with a script. The same script she needs to get her hands on.

Something inside Max clicks. Like seeing the perfect picture right in front of her. Like the sound when she takes that shot. Victoria has the script? The same Victoria who wants to give her the silent treatment? Fine, Max will give her a reason to reconsider. Two birds, one stone.

“You sure?” Dana asks, hand on her hip.

Max smiles. “On second thought... It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

With that, she heads towards Taylor, who responds with an eyeroll. Max rolls on her heels. “Hey, Taylor,” Max starts, “I’m kind of shaky on my cue to change props during the duel. Maybe you could go over it with me? Since it’s one of the important cues and you’re in it…”

“We’re not doing that scene right now. Even if I, like, wanted to do that with you, Victoria has the script right now.”

Now that Max is really thinking about it, don’t they all have their own copy? Someone besides Max must have forgotten theirs, too. “Let’s go ask her if we can borrow it. You and me.” Or Taylor is just using that as an excuse.

Taylor crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow with thinly veiled suspicion, hands playing with her hair as she considers this. “What is going on with you two? All of a sudden we’re told to lay off Kate, then you. Then, we’re told to _ ignore  _ you entirely.”

So Max is right. It’s not a coincidence.

“All the more reason for us to talk to her,” Max hints, spinning her web. “She’s been making decisions that don’t make sense to you, right? Acting differently?” At the nod of Taylor’s blonde head, Max continues. “So she’s probably going through something, and Victoria needs her best  _ friend _ to help her through it. I heard rumors that she’s there for you when your mom is in the hospital. So now you can do that for her.”

And there it is, a perfect web of lies.

Max offers a smile, hoping Victoria’s friend won’t see the spidersilk around the edges.

“Uhh, okay,” Taylor replies. “Wait here. I’ll go ask.”

_ No, dumbass, you have to get her to bring you with her. _ Max’s hand twitches in instinct, wanting to rewind. It seems like her muscle memory hasn’t caught up with the rest of her yet. Just a week of ultimate power at her fingertips and she’s still not used to it being gone. With a frown, she presses her hands flat against her sides. She might have made some missteps, but she thinks she’s done pretty well without it, considering everything that’s happened.

_ I dare any other time traveler to handle it better. _

That is, if there’s anyone else.

_ Is there? _

“Max?” Taylor waves a hand in front of her face and holds up the script. “You’re not seriously daydreaming right now, are you?”

“Uh- No-” Max shifts her stance, her arms colliding into the sides of her body. “Maybe, just a little.”

She looks past her, searching for a familiar tall, blonde figure. When her eyes finally spot Victoria, it’s obvious Max didn’t capture her attention. Or maybe she did and Victoria looked away before Max could notice. Or maybe she’s intentionally leading Max to believe that she looked away before she could notice. Or maybe she’s just overthinking it, as always.

“Max?” Taylor waves the script in the air.

Max snaps out of it. She turns her attention back to Taylor with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, let’s start from his scene with Claudius.”

Just as Taylor starts to recite her lines, however, Max’s focus wavers again.

She sees, in the distance, Dana and Hayden talking to Mr. Keaton, and something about that seems off. He looks like he’s giving them notes, but she can’t remember whether Gertrude has any scenes with Hamlet’s right hand man. But why would he be going it over with those two, of all pairings? Why wouldn’t he go over a scene with Dana and Victoria or Victoria and Hayden, when they have more scenes together?

She forces herself to look at Taylor again, whose face is scrunched up in frustration as she stumbles over her lines. Max tries to tell her it’s alright, but it comes out wrong, somehow. She tries, tries, tries again, only for her mouth to fuck up the syllables like it’s first grade again.   

Then, from out of nowhere, she hears someone speaking. “The question is: are Miranda’s feelings of instant passion for Ferdinand just inexperience and dramatic circumstances… or has she actually just met the love of her life?”

There’s that name again.  _ Miranda. _

“Max!” Taylor exclaims. “Where are you going with the script?”

  
  


Max scans what feels like each and every page of the script, but she can’t find any character named Miranda. She even looks through some of the monologues, hoping that maybe it’s some reference to something. However, she comes up with nothing. Nada. Zip. 

Maybe her journal will help her find some answers. Maybe he wasn’t talking about a character. It could be something else having to do with the drama department that she just doesn’t remember. Maybe there’s a drama student named Miranda. Maybe someone’s mom is named Miranda. She doesn’t know, but she intends to find out.

She leaves the script on a chair and takes out her journal from her messenger bag. 

  
  


Looking through her journal for answers doesn’t exactly pan out the way she hoped it would. Not only is there nothing about this Miranda but the more she flips through, the more she sees the same name pop up again and again. Victoria this, Victoria that. Victoria is so rich. Victoria is so pretty. Victoria is so stylish. Victoria is so mean. Did Max really sound like such a broken record? Were these really the things she cared about back then? Last October feels like a century ago.

Then, of course, the line,  _ Only Victoria could make me feel dirty in a shower. _

Maybe this whole Victoria thing isn’t so out of left field. And it makes her wonder whether Victoria had that same fixation all along, without having the words to describe it. It’s a song without a music sheet, knowing the sounds but not able to pick out specific notes. Or maybe it’s more like trying to find something in a crowded room, all along ignoring the carefully arranged song in the background. Not that either of them were in love with each other, or that they’re in love now. But Max has to admit it’s strange she spent so much time and energy thinking about Victoria while supposedly hating her and all she stood for. They could have been friends, or maybe something else, something different, if they just set aside all the high school bullshit.

_ Focus, Don Juan, you don’t have time to think about that, of all things _ .

She takes out her phone and opens up the default search engine. She types in:  **Miranda Blackwell Academy Drama** . Nothing related comes up except a broken link to the Facebook page of someone named Jane Miranda Jones. She goes past page four before she makes another search, replacing the word drama with the word theatre. Nothing interesting comes up except a link to a Youtube video by that same Jones girl where she does twenty musical theatre impressions. Further research tells her the girl has no obvious ties to Blackwell Academy, so Max decides to throw that thread entirely.

She types into the search box:  **Miranda Shakespeare** .

The first result is a Wikipedia article about The Tempest by William Shakespeare.

The second result is the official website for a recent adaptation of The Tempest by William Shakespeare.

The third result is a WikiHow page about how to use Shakespeare to ask out your crush.

But, then, the  _ fourth  _ result is an online analysis about the character Miranda from The Tempest by William Shakespeare.

She frowns. This sounds important, but she can’t think of why. She knows Blackwell’s drama department did  _ The Tempest _ some years back, but now they’re doing Hamlet. Why would Mr. Keaton be talking about  _ Tempest  _ characters?

Soon enough, everyone around her is already leaving, and she can spot Brooke giving her the stinkeye as she gets her backpack. Max decides to follow their lead and head out.

  
  
  


Max looks down at the phone in her side pocket. She takes it out and traces along the edges with her fingers. As she presses the on button, she thinks about Victoria again. She doesn’t know how to handle this on her own. She doesn’t want to do this on her own. She can’t do this on her own. So she starts tapping her fingers against the screen.

**hey.** All this time she thought about contacting her and all she could think to say was one word. Kind of funny if she thought about it. 

Max stares down at the phone, at the three letters she just sent.

She stares more at the sudden  **…** on the screen. Dot, dot, dot.

Max heart races.

_ Does she want to talk, too? _

Max gulps down a breath, feeling a little like a fish on land. Millions of possible replies float through her head. Most of them probably won’t be civil. That’s fine. Max doesn’t expect civility.

But then, but then, the ellipses disappear, and Max can feel the sting in her eyes. Victoria still wants nothing to do with her. 

_ Fine, I get the message. _ She puts her phone away.

  
  
  


The sky is starting to darken.

The idea of going back to her dorm is unnerving, to say the least. Max doesn’t know how much more she can take of this. But she doesn’t know where else she’d sleep.

Then, she’s reminded of perfumed sheets and red pillows and a version of Paris that only exists in the movies. The door to the dorm hall pulls open with ease. Just the memory settles her nerves. Max was safe there with Victoria. Funny, she never would have thought Victoria and  _ safe  _ could go together so well. Max doesn’t even think she could say her presence is comforting, at least not without a laugh at the absurdity of it, but, when she’s around Victoria, she feels a little less scared shitless. More importantly, she feels something. Not even a  _ bad _ something, but the kind of something she can get out of bed for.

But, again, Victoria is Victoria.

The thought is sobering enough to look away from the dorm room. She doesn’t know when, if ever, they’ll ever be back to their routine. Victoria’s giving her the silent treatment, and it’s like she’s pretending nothing ever happened between them. But something did. Even Taylor notices something’s off with her. And the less said about the Adam situation the better.

Though, maybe, she could ask to stay over at someone else’s. She looks down the hall. Kate is chatting with Alyssa and some other girl. She looks almost happy. There’s a smile at least, a smile that reaches her eyes even from this distance. Max would go and ask, but she doesn’t want to burden her with her own problems. Not when she’s doing so well. Kate deserves _ better _ .  

Past them Justin and Stella go into a room, and the door shuts. Max didn’t realize they hung out. Then again, Max isn’t the most observant. Not eager to disturb them, she turns to Brooke’s dorm instead, seeing light stream from below the door. She gives it a loud, quick knock.  

Max can hear her heart in her chest. Maybe it’s the caffeine, but she doesn’t think she’s tired. If anything, she’s never been more awake.

“Don’t you see I’m busy?! Try later!” Brooke finally chimes in from the other side.

Max would try Juliet’s, but then she remembers the worried knock at the door. She’s not sure she wants to explain what that was all about, not yet. So Max walks back toward her own dorm, and she looks at the door. Max stares at the faint, oil finish on the wood, and she tries to will herself to go inside. She’s faced the nightmares before. She can do it again. She’s stronger than this.

And she tells herself that an hour later.

And an hour after that.

And after that.

  
  
  


That doesn’t exactly go to plan, so she leaves.

She finds herself wandering the campus, haunting the place like a ghost refusing its rest. At first, she’s sticking to the perimeter of the dorms. Then, she finds herself spreading out, once she realizes there’s no one to catch her out of the dorm hall. She can’t go back inside, anyways, and she doesn’t want to. It doesn’t feel safe, so she’s wandering to find someplace that is. If there _ is  _ someplace that’s safe. Of all the places to feel vulnerable, school is probably one of the worst – nightmares and exams all in one place.

So she’s wondering why she stuck around. No Chloe. No Jefferson. None of the reasons she came are relevant anymore. But maybe that’s why she stayed, since, if she leaves for good, it’s like it never happened. At least, it’s supposed to have never happened.

She looks down at her hand, cloaked in almost impossible darkness. If she still had the rewind, she could go back to Winter Break and ask to stay in Seattle. Wouldn’t be the first time a promising student dropped out of Blackwell Academy. She doubts Mom or Dad would kick up much of a fuss either, considering everything she’s gone through. But she doesn’t rewind, since she suspects she can’t. It’s probably gone.

And, even if it weren’t, would leaving Blackwell really solve anything?

Would preventing the kiss actually help her? Or is all the rewinding just a crutch? It’s easier to rewind than to accept what she’s done, what she’s gone through. She wouldn’t have to face Victoria everyday, knowing they almost had a genuine connection. They almost had a bond, and they threw it away.

Max closes her fist, but she can only barely see it in the dark like this. She squints ahead, continuing onward to wherever her feet take her. When it gets too hard to look through the shadows, her phone turns on with a click of a button to shine a path forward. The light cuts through the darkness in stark blue-white.

She’s not tired anyways.

  
  
  


“Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dullness.”

Max is in the courtyard, and she ducks behind a tree when she hears someone. She doesn’t recognize the voice, but it sounds very Shakespearean. She’s heard enough of the drama kids’ voices to recognize theirs, so it has to be someone else.

“And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.”

Her voice sounds soothing. It has a confidence most other voices lack when reciting ye olde English.

On a whim, she decides she’ll shake that confidence. It’s been a while since she’s been up to any teenage mischief. She runs to the next tree closest to her, clinging to its side in the darkness. Each time she does, she sees the figure onstage a little clearer. She sees the figure until one figure becomes two figures, and there’s something oddly familiar about it.

“All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come to answer thy best pleasure.” It  _ is  _ familiar, even though she’s starting to realize this might not be Hamlet. Is it that Shakespeare club Victoria mentioned? It seems a little late for club activities.

One of the figures turns toward her, and Max, stuck in her thoughts, just barely manages to avoid her eyes. She clings toward the nearest tree, mapping out the best path to the back of the stage. When she and Chloe were kids, they did this sort of thing all the time. They had to, to avoid their nemeses (though, when they were kids, Max used to add an extra “-eses” to the end of “nemeses”). Now isn’t much different.

When she finally gets to the side of the stage, she lets out a sigh of relief that she wasn’t spotted. The worst part is over, and she can focus on the scare. She slowly tiptoes to the steps and practically crawls onto the stage, keeping to the wings. She’s not sure who put the curtains up and why, considering it’s not a performance night tonight. And usually the stage curtains are kept in storage, which most people don’t have access to. Max only has one of the spare keys because she’s Props Master.

But when she stands up, she stares slackjawed at the scene.

“But... thou assured my freedom… didn’t thou?” 

Max finds herself walking straight onto the stage in disbelief.

“Ch-Chloe?” She’s a little shorter and without the blue hair, but she could tell it’s Chloe even from behind. And, when Chloe turns towards the other figure, Max can see her beautiful, bewildered face. She’s just as lost as Max is. And the other face? Max had seen it on a million flyers. She’d seen it in drawings and photographs and newspapers. The other figure could only be Rachel Amber, and Max remembers something: she’s beautiful, too.

“I never said how dearly I hold thee; my habit’s been to keep my soul well-draped. My most loyal spirit, companion, and friend,” Rachel says, with a gentle smile, “is acting in my service not replete with excitement, amusement, and delight?” 

“Of course, mistress,” Chloe says, and it’s so tender it hurts, “most truly it is so.”

But they continue the scene, despite Max’s interruption. It’s almost as if there was no interruption.

“Then why, I pray you, wish you to be free?”

It’s almost as if Max’s presence doesn’t even matter.

“ Excitement ages quickly, and I fear if we set out in search of new, uh,  _ fun _ , you'll tire of me, and, then, I'll be alone. ”

Rachel stomps the stage floor with her staff. “ I have thee in my grasp, I will not bend. I will not see thee flying forth alone. The envy would be more than I could bare. ”

How could awkward, useless Maxine Caulfield matter in comparison to Rachel Amber?

“So come with me,” Chloe pleads, “is that not in thy power?”

Max is finding it hard to breathe. She never liked to think about Rachel like this, her replacing Max. She was Chloe’s new partner in crime. It was supposed to be Max and Chloe and nobody else. But Rachel was somebody.

“Spirit, take my hands.”  _ No. _

Max nearly drops to her knees, powerless to stop any of it. Her legs feel like jelly beneath her.

Rachel drops to one knee, instead. “Most faithful friend, for but a little longer I beseech; continue in thy service to my schemes.” She has Chloe’s hand in hers, and the silhouette is so picturesque it’s almost like they’re alive again. Alive and in love and... “And, when they are complete, I  _ swear _ to thee: We shall fly beyond this isle, the corners of the world our mere prologue.”

Max makes a run for it.

  
  
  


She opens the storage room with her spare key, huffing hard and fast into the chilly air.  _ Was that really Chloe and Rachel? _ She shivers as the door opens. That can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. Chloe never mentioned being into theatre. Max would know if her best friend liked theatre… right? She closes the door behind her, her back sliding down the surface to the ground.

She wraps her arms around herself. She holds herself together like twine around a package, and she stays inside until daybreak, alone and afraid.

  
  


Max notes Kate standing alone outside during morning break. She can’t tell what she’s looking at, but maybe it’s just her deep in thought. It’s odd to see her on her lonesome, since lately it feels like Kate’s been hanging out with everyone except Max. But she’s here right by the door, and it seems wrong not to take advantage of the opportunity. Maybe they could set up a tea date.

“Hey, Kate,” Max says, and she looks off towards the courtyard. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

She’s just staring. What on Earth is she staring at?

“Kate?” Max repeats.

Then, as if startled, she practically jumps back. “Oh, Max! What a surprise.”

“Is everything okay?” Max asks, and she can’t even count how many times she’s asked her that this school year.

“I’m fine.” Kate nods. She wonders if she’s imagining the worry lines on her forehead. “You don’t need to keep asking.” Not a shocker. She has a lot of reasons to be worried.

“It’s just,” She tells her, her hands fidgeting, “We haven’t really hung out lately and…”

“Is that Jess?” But Max doesn’t get a chance to finish that statement, since Kate sees someone from her bible group. She can feel her lips starting to tug down into a small frown.

“Max, can I take a rain check? I promised Jessica I’d go over the club agenda with her today,” Kate says, just a little too quickly to be coincidence.

“Uh,” Max shrugs. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

She does mind.

Not that she should say so. It’s a good sign that Kate has more people in her life now. She needs the support system, considering her struggles. She deserves all the love and support in the world to keep the smiles on her face. And it’s fine that she doesn’t always have time for Max.  _ It’s  _ fine. It’s fine. It’s  _ fine _ .

She shouldn’t mind, but she does.

  
  
  


When Max sniffs her shoulder, she realizes that she stinks. No wonder Kate doesn’t want to be around her.

She doesn’t know the last time she took a shower, so she runs into the dorm bathroom, not even bothering to fetch a change of clothes and certainly not taking a moment to glance in the mirror. She pulls the curtain over the frame of the stall and secures it nice and tight. As she takes off her clothes, she’s still shaking with energy. She hasn’t exactly been sleeping much, so she’s not sure why her tense muscles are aching for action.

It could be stress.

Maybe a nice, warm shower will help out with that.

This probably means she’s going to miss at least half of her last class, but, honestly, they can handle her skipping one class to take a damn shower. Besides, isn’t the rule supposed to be that you have to be on Blackwall Academy grounds during class, not that you have to be in your classroom?

She turns on the faucet, and the cool drops warm up on her skin. She adjusts it here and there any time it gets uncomfortable. She’s always been picky about the temperature of the water. She grabs some soap someone left behind, which has been used up into a little nub of a bar. Slowly, she starts her cleaning, focusing on the spots where she smelled the worst: armpits, neck, upper legs, feet. 

It’s then that she realizes her hand found its way between her thighs, somehow, without Max even realizing it. She doesn’t think about that kind of thing much, or she didn’t use to. It’s not like young girls get taught about masturbating. And movies and television don’t talk about girls doing it much, either. For most of her life, she didn’t even really know it was a thing she could do. Being born a certain way doesn’t come with an instructions manual.

But her hand is there. God, is it there.

Max sets the tiny piece of soap back onto the soapdish, and she takes a deep breath.

She slips a cautious finger inside and goes to work. She pokes and prods about until she finds something that kind of tickles but also feels kind of warm and weird, too. She doesn’t know how to describe the tendrils of warmth spreading along flesh, an ache that isn’t quite pain but isn’t completely pleasure either. Stress? Anxiety, maybe. Or desperation.  

No, the feeling is starting to fade. She needs to act quickly.  _ Do what they do in the movies. Think of something. _ Something that makes her  _ feel  _ something.

Chloe Price. Chloe in her paper thin tank top and skinny jeans. Chloe taking off her clothes at the pool. Seeing Chloe in her underwear. Seeing Chloe without her underwear. Chloe daring her to kiss her the next morning. Kissing Chloe and kissing her enough to make her breathless. Kissing Chloe in the rain before she- No,  _ fuck _ no, no. She can feel her eyes start to sting.

_ Something else! Something else. _ So she thinks of strong perfume, something floral but not gentle because Victoria’s anything but gentle.

Victoria’s perfume against her neck. Max’s lips against her neck. Max’s hands around her neck. Victoria’s hands around her neck. Those graceful, long fingers gripping her throat. Max crying out, choked with emotion. Victoria kissing it better. Victoria kissing her, down there. Victoria making her feel that warmth. Victoria  _ forcing _ her to feel it.

French words whispered against Max’s thighs.

Something wet drips from her nose. On instinct, her left hand raises to touch it, but she doesn’t stop the motions between her legs. The fingertip comes away drenched in blue. Max blinks. The fingertip comes away drenched in scarlet.

The pubic hair scratches against her skin as her hand pumps more roughly. She’s climbing higher and higher to a rhythm she settled into. She thinks she’s almost there, whatever there is.

More start to seep out from her nose, thicker this time. She tries to catch it with her hand, but it’s no use. Her right hand raises to scoop up the excess as it pours out. But the motions between her legs continue. The tingling sensations spread outward, the mounting pressure overtaking her. But something is wrong,  _ very _ wrong. She manages to look down at her hips.

While Max’s own two hands are cupping her nose, a hand is pumping fingers in and out of her.

The skin is greyed and speckled with bruises. It smells rotted. She wants to cry out in terror, but she’s reaching some sort of peak. The weird feeling is everywhere and it’s screaming, screaming,  _ screaming _ for release. She needs it, and her nerves agree, to the point her body is jerking this way and that. And then, and then, it’s there.

It clouds her vision; she’s practically seeing stars. And she cries out for another reason entirely.

When she looks down, the third hand is gone.

Max is shaking. Her limbs turn to jelly as she slides down to the wet, dirty bathroom floor. It feels cold underneath her. She shivers violently, and bile rises to her throat. It takes a full five minutes for her heart rate to slow down enough to think. It takes longer for her to drag herself to her feet. The water shuts off with a soft screech, and she’s left with the sound of her own inner monologue. She’s not sure what just happened. Is it the lack of shuteye? Is it the stress? Or is it…  _ Is it…?  _ Max forces her breath steady.

Max doesn’t know how much more she can take.

  
  
  


Max stands outside her dorm room, staring at the room number. She stares, and she slowly turns the key in its lock until she hears a click.

Her photo wall is covered in bloody letters. Max can’t make out what it’s trying to say, but she backs away anyways, her back colliding with her closet door. She can hear her own rapid heartbeat. She hates to admit it, but she’s shaking, too. “F-fuck.”

She runs into the closet and closes the door behind her, huddling against her clothing in the darkness.

  
  


There’s a shoebox of momentos and ghosts, and Max sometimes wants to shrink so she can live in it. Joyce insisted that she take it, months ago, and Max wasn’t about to decline. The contents inside are hauntingly familiar. There’s the Rachel and Chloe mix CD, the Max and Chloe mix, the bullet necklace, one of Chloe’s pipes, a parking ticket, couple of knickknacks from the junkyard, and some photographs. It’s weird to think that practically Chloe’s whole life is in this old shoebox. This life anyways. Or that life.

The timeline logic is hard to wrap her head around.

Whatever life it is, it’s here, in all its gritty beauty, in all its dirt and grime and dubious legality. Max has mostly kept it closed, kept away in the corner of her dorm room closet. She’s opened it a couple times, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to take anything out. Now that she thinks about it, it’s kind of creepy. She’s maintaining the world’s tiniest morbid museum, dedicated to a girl who died believing Max didn’t even care enough to send a text every once in a while.

But, looking into it now, it’s the most precious thing in the world. It makes her feel almost safe, even though she knows she isn’t.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Max says into the box, comforted by the ghost of her. “I’m scared.” As if to reference her fear, she turns to look behind her in the closet.

If this was that one romance movie, the ghost would come back for her, and they could be together again. Or Max would have died with her in some suitably dramatic way, whether that means they move on to the next realm or just freshly-dug graves. Unfortunately, it’s not a romantic comedy, or a romantic tragedy for that matter; it’s just her fucking life. And the itch in her bones for some deeper meaning to it all is just that, an itch to scratch.

And it’s not Chloe. She knows it’s not Chloe. Not the one in the dreams and not the one she knew that made her laugh and cry and roll her eyes. But right now it’s the closest thing she has, and it’s close to all she has. She needs that someone to pull her through this, to be there for her just like Chloe.  


That’s why, when she leaves the dorm room freshly dressed, she takes the shoebox with her. She takes the shoebox in her arms as she marches down the hallway and stops in front of room 223.

She knocks on the door and waits.

It finally opens to Juliet in her pajamas. The warm light pours in from the lit dorm like a lighthouse, stretching far beyond the opening between door and wall. “Max, what do you want?” Then, Juliet tilts her head to get a better look at her. “What’s the box for?”

“There’s something you should know.”

  
  


It’s petty. It’s incredibly petty, Max realizes as she takes a step back from the board.

There’s a purple string connecting Max to Victoria.

It’s also a lie. She and Victoria weren’t together-together by any means. If she thought about it, the kiss could have meant anything. It didn’t mean  _ nothing _ , but, still, that didn’t mean it meant love. Or whatever things like that mean. Max has a habit of not thinking kisses through. She never regretted kissing Chloe, of course she didn’t, but she only did it because she was dared to. Because the look on her face would be funny. Because she didn’t know. So really she’s telling a lie.

But she has to get Victoria’s attention somehow, and this is the best way she could think of. She tried getting something wrong in class. That didn’t work out. She tried getting to her through her friends. That didn’t do anything either. Nothing seems to get through to her, so she needs the threat of it getting out. Victoria’s her one hope to get through this alive. Victoria made her feel safe. Victoria made her feel protected.

But that doesn’t stop her from regretting it the moment she sees Juliet’s face.

“Oh,  _ Max _ …” She looks almost disappointed. Like Max was some hapless toddler that scribbled on the wall.  _ Mom was so mad when me and Chloe did that.  _ They were so young but not young enough to not know any better. _ I’m never going to have that again. Not with Chloe gone. _ She’s just looking at her, and Max wants the feeling to go away.

“What?” She hates how raw this makes her. She hates that it makes her feel raw at all.

“Nothing- I-” Juliet shrugs and glances down at the floor, finally letting out a sigh. “I just think you’re in over your head.”  

Max thinks she might be right.

  
  


Victoria is furious.

“You fucking  _ outed _ me to Blackwell’s own Lois Lane? You’re in deep shit, Caulfield.”

Max is taken aback. Victoria is offended, of all people? “You threatened to out me to the whole school as some lesbian stalker!”

But that doesn’t prepare her for Victoria’s retort.

“That’s different. Everyone already knows you like girls,” She snaps.

“What?” Every moment is now a different shade. Every look, every touch, every flinch. It’s filtered in stop sign red. There had to be something that gave her away, some tell. They would have told her so, if they knew, right? Or maybe Victoria is just trying to hurt her. She’s just  _ jealous _ ; she’s always been. Max is finding it hard to sort through the jumble of thoughts in her head, so she just gawks at her.

“Well, it’s true,” Victoria tells her, but she seems  _ less _ sure this time. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.”

Max shifts her attention to the bathroom tiles. “How would they even-”

“They just do,” Victoria interrupts. “You never seem interested in guys and you act  _ weird _ . Why do you think the school Jesus Wife is always hanging out with you? She wants to “save” you, moron.”

_ No, no, no.  _ Red means stop. Green means go. Red red red. Kate in red. Dana in red. Juliet. Warren. All of them red and laughing where she can’t see.

“Shut up! You don’t- That’s not-” Max doesn’t even know how to argue against all the shifting colors. The floor is falling beneath her feet, and she could fall too at any moment. “How does that make what you did any better? I didn’t ask for… for  _ any _ of this! Maybe I wanted to come out on my own terms. Without all the high school bullshit.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same way?” Victoria challenges. “Why is it suddenly okay when deliriously  _ twee _ Max Caulfield outs someone? Because you’re a “good girl?” Because you give a- because you  _ pretend  _ to give a shit?”

Ouch. She can’t believe Victoria said Max  _ cared _ , only to take it back so cruelly.

“Victoria,” is all Max can say to that, looking up into those stone cold eyes. “I-”

“Don’t… Don’t say my  _ name _ like that,” Victoria orders, her lips trembling like she’s cold. Or like she’s crying. Maybe she wants to cry. Max wants to cry, too, and, even more than that, she wants to brush away Victoria’s tears with her fingertips. “Don’t you dare  _ look _ at me like that.” It makes her stomach twist into knots, and she senses the spread of this terrible feeling throughout her body. If Max had eaten anything, she might just throw up.

“Like what?” Max asks.

“You’re not better than me, you know that,” She says, and it’s all wrong. Max’s throat is filled with how wrong it is. “I’m not someone to be- to be  _ pitied _ .”

“I don’t-” Max tries to move closer, but Victoria’s already pulling away.

“Then, leave. me. the.  _ fuck. _ alone.”

Max watches her turn around and leave her, wanting to chase after Victoria Chase and tell her. She wants to make her understand that it’s all a misunderstanding, but, again, her stomach is in knots. She can barely move a muscle much less run after her. Besides, she thinks she ruined enough for one day.

_ Nice going, Midas. Everything you touched turned to shit. Again. _

  
  


Max goes through the day in defeat. Her actions are muscle memory, the kind that makes you tell your mother you’ll have a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day when you don’t or the kind where you tell everyone everywhere you’re fine when you’re not. Max doesn’t even keep track of the time or date anymore. All she keeps track of is whether Victoria is in the vicinity, and that’s not even by intention. She just notices a strong presence when she’s around and a glaring absence when she leaves.

Max wishes she’d just yell at her more. She can handle anger. She can handle rage. She can’t handle more avoidance, not when there’s so much unsaid.

  
  


“Curses. I swear that Graham boy picks the most perilous days to be absent,” Mr. Keaton complains.

The rehearsal is tense. Victoria can’t even stand to be in the same room with Max, from the way she just takes off with Taylor the moment she sees her. Which, of course, is fair. Max would argue she deserved even worse, though that didn’t stop it from constricting her heart. Worse yet, Brooke seems to notice, from the way she’s glaring daggers at Max. Or maybe it’s because Warren isn’t here today, and, somehow, that’s Max’s fault, too. Max hasn’t exactly been the best of friends, especially considering she only noticed he wasn’t there because Mr. Keaton grumbled about it. 

Not wanting to think about it, she goes to the storage room. She doesn’t even have a task assigned to go to there, but she needs some time by herself. It’d be bad to meltdown in front of the cast and crew. Maybe for the sake of maintaining professionalism. Or maybe just because it’s high school, and it’d get around that Max had a meltdown. Victoria isn’t the only bully who aims emotionally below the belt. Either way, she unlocks the storage room and closes the door behind her.

Immediately, she walks towards the box of props they gathered for this year’s play. But, on the way, she stops in her tracks. There’s a box with  _ The Tempest _ label. Sticking out of the top is some paper, probably a flyer. 

Not able to help herself, she changes gears and snatches the piece of paper, only to find it’s a list.  _ These look like assignments.  _ The first name she spots is Brooke, who was the sound designer, of course. Stella and Adam were involved, too.

But then her hand closes around the paper, crinkling it.  _ Steph Gingrich. _

That can’t be the same Steph. That can’t be the girl from the dreams. She never even met the girl; it’d make no sense.  _ As if time travel powers make sense either. _ Max takes the paper and stuffs it down her messenger bag.

She needs to find some answers. 

  
  


She looks up this Steph on her phone and finds some photos on the image search. One of them looks suspiciously like the girl in the dream. So she thinks that maybe she’s famous or something, like one of those social media queens. That would explain why she’s seeing her in a dream despite having never met her before. Even though that’s some sound logic, Max finds herself digging deeper, clicking more links on the screen and copy-pasting more info into the search engine. It feels like forever until she manages to get anywhere.

Finally, she finds a phone number for a Steph Gingrich on a facebook group for Blackwell Academy alumni. As she presses the numbers on her phone, she tries not to panic.  _ There’s probably a lot of Stephs who went here. The name’s not exactly rare. _

The idea that it’s just a coincidence is comforting.

But the voice on the other end comes in nice and clear. “Uh, hello? Who is it?”

Max’s hand goes slack, and it’s suddenly so hard to breathe. The phone drops to the floor with a clatter. 

“Anyone there?” She can faintly hear, but she’s no longer thinking about talking to Steph so much as what talking to Steph  _ means _ . If Steph is real, if Steph is more than a figment of Max’s imagination, then what else is real? She thought those were just dreams, so the things that happened were suspect. The stuff about Max’s drinking, heading out on the road with Chloe, her parents letting her stay at someone’s apartment, it all seems so unreal.

_ I thought the Other Max was just part of my dreams, too. But she’s real.  _ And Steph is real. Does that mean the dream Chloe is real, too, somehow?

The idea that they’re more than just ghosts haunts Max. It’s not just because it’s unreal, not just because it shouldn’t be happening. Somehow, that’s not what scares her. It’s haunting because Max wants it to be real. Despite who Steph is, her existence means it’s possible. She may hate herself for it, but she wants a world with Chloe Price again.

She wants it so bad she can almost taste it. 

  
  
  


Max finds her dream journal to try to make sense of this. She lines up dates, times, between the dreams and her reality. 

She even writes out some things she left out of the journal, just to have more cases to draw from. She had her first Chloe Dreams at night, and, in the dreams it was pretty late, too. The Other Max dream matched up time-wise as well.

Not to mention, a lot of the dreams had a sense of continuity. One dream would lead to the next, and that one would lead to the one after that. 

She needs to contact someone who’ll help her understand what’s going on. 

  
  


It’s clear who she needs to talk to. Victoria understandably wants nothing to do with her. Brooke probably wouldn’t even believe her. Kate is busy enough with her life. That leaves Warren. He told Max that he wants to know what’s bothering her, so it’s worth a shot.

The problem is, she hasn’t seen Warren around. She’s not sure if he’s out sick or what, but it feels like one-by-one her lifelines are being cut. 

She sends out a text.  **Your not in class. did you come down with the flu or something**

It feels like eons until his reply.

A short, succinct,  **No, I’m at the aurora creek hospital.**

**you ok?** She sends, quickly followed by his text, which says,  **Just visiting** .

_ Aurora Creek Hospital. _ Isn’t that where Nathan Prescott is staying? At least, that’s where she heard the Prescotts arranged for him to stay. Ditching school for that seems out of character for Warren. Then again, Max isn’t sure she ever really knew anyone around here. She’s been stuck in her own little world for so long that breaking out of it is like seeing the world through fresh eyes. The realization is daunting. She might not have ever really known what Warren would or wouldn’t do. But still, breaking the rules for Nathan of all people.

So Max sends out another text,  **can we talk**

She has a feeling she knows the answer before it even arrives. Her suspicions are confirmed when she reads the traitorous words,  **Sorry not rn but soon!**

She’s not sure when soon is. She’s not even sure she cares. It’s just more lifelines cut with extra large scissors. It’s just more disappointments stacked on the shitpile that is her life. She kind of wants to kick something, which is a weird feeling. She was frustrated with Chloe hanging the lack of contact over her head, but now Max is starting to get it. It sucks to feel abandoned.

She isn’t sure what she’s going to do, just that she might have to do it on her own.

  
  


The next morning is both a blessing and a curse.

When she looks up, she sees Victoria stalking towards her.

Her teeth bared, Victoria rounds on Max. “What the fuck, Max?”

She’s holding up a photo of the backyard in Seattle.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Victoria shoves her into the wall. “What is your childhood  _ trauma _ ?! Who breaks into someone’s room to switch a goddamn photograph?”

“I-” Max realizes she’s being berated, in some distant corner of her mind. Victoria is yelling at her about, about  _ something _ . She’s angry, and Max probably should be reacting. Pushing her away or pulling her closer or, or something.

But all her mind can focus on is that it’s Max in the photo, just like before.

But she’s closer.

And she looks  _ furious _ .

“I- I-” is all she can choke out. She looks at the impossible photograph, her hands closing into fists. But still, if Other Max could change it the first time, why not a second time? Just to frighten her. Just to remind her she could get to what she cares about.

“”Oh, I- I-  _ I- _ ”,” Victoria mocks, taking on that high pitched affectation before settling back into her regular voice, “Give me a break.  _ I’m _ the victim here.”

Max finally turns her head to look at Victoria, and she watches her face morph from righteous anger to confusion to concern.

“You… didn’t switch the photographs,” Victoria realizes, taking a step away. Her voice, her gaze, even her body language turn distant as the rage melts away, and Max doesn’t know what it means.

All she knows is that Other Max isn’t playing around. She thought it was just her room or her dreams, that it was limited to Max and her internal struggle. But, this means she could be anywhere, doing anything to anyone. Max jerks the photograph out of Victoria’s hand and makes a run for it.

As she makes her escape, all she can hear is Victoria’s, “Hey, answer me!”

  
  
  


When you’re at the end of your rope, you don’t have any choice but to go back to the start, really.

That in mind, Max marches to the bathroom, blood and sheer determination pulsing through her veins. It’s the place where she got her powers, the place where she saved Chloe, and maybe it can be where this all ends. Ending where she starts like a perfect loop, completely without displacement. The door flips open with a bang as it collides against the wall, and Max grips the sink with unsteady hands.

It smells like a graveyard in here, all soil and mold.

She gathers her hair and twists the rubber band around her wrist into loops, pulling her locks into a firm ponytail. It’s almost too tight, and her scalp tingles from the pull. It’s long now, too long, about as long as it’s been since she last took control of her life.

“I know you’re there,” Max tells her reflection, the glossy blue eyes and the dark circles that frame them. Her surrounding skin is pallid, bloodless. She looks like the living dead, a body of reanimated tissue stitched back together in haste. She certainly feels brought back to life. “I don’t know if you’re  _ real _ or just my brain fucking with me or some weird  _ time  _ thing, but you’re going to listen to me.”

She’s met with silence.

“You hate me enough to- to torment me night and day. You haunt my dreams, my mirror, my  _ photos _ , and- and for  _ what _ ?”

Max watches the mirror, waiting for an answer. An acknowledgment. Something.

She leans in toward her mirror image, eyes wide and wet and carrying the whole world within it. “To hurt me?” All the pain and joy and suffering and loving of everything may as well be trapped in the small, blue irises. “Well, too fucking late. Chloe dying did that more than you  _ ever  _ could.” She leans in further, urged on by her newfound energy. “To kill me?” Her eyes widen further, and the scope of her world stretches. “ _ Fine! _ You know what? I’ve been waiting for you to finally do it.”

And why not? Death would end it. No more Other Max. No more Chloe with Rachel. No more Victoria Chase. No more reminders of the storm that never was or the choice she shouldn’t have been forced to make. Just much-needed rest. Just comforting darkness. It’s messed-up, but that’s all that’s left.

She watches with intention, then, looking for some glimmer of a response. If anything, she should be all too eager to finally get it over with. Any minute now she’ll reach out a hand and close it around her neck. Max’s grip on the sink adjusts, almost a twitch, as she waits for a reaction. Only to get nothing again.

_ Then, I guess I’ll have to play hardball. _ Max’s stomach does flips as she takes the impossible photo from her fist and rips it in full view of the mirror. It’s a soft scratch of a noise. Really, it’s barely audible, almost nothing, but it’s everything. The defiance of it is more satisfying than anything.

“But don’t you  _ ever  _ mess with Victoria or my  _ photos  _ again,” She snaps.

The mirror’s surface cracks. There’s now a small branching line that wasn’t there before. She’s not sure if the adrenaline is fear or rage or both, but all she knows is that she’s feeling more alive than she has in a while.

She spits at the reflection before pushing out the door.

  
  
  


Brimming with frantic energy, Max doesn’t feel like going to her last class of the day or even going back to the dorms. She’s too asleep to attempt learning and too awake to attempt sleep. Not that she’s been attempting sleep lately. 

Either way, that’s a nonstarter, so she marches to the outside stage, as if daring any more ghosts from the past to come back and haunt her. This time, however, she doesn’t spot any Rachels. No blonde-haired Chloes in feathers, either. No one but herself and the adrenaline rush. She goes past the stage to the storage room, slipping out her key from her messenger bag and twirling the key ring around her finger. She doesn’t usually do that, but she needs something to do with her shaking hands.  

She decides she’s going to set up for rehearsal early today. Early bird gets the worm. She grabs a box of props for  _ Hamlet _ and hefts it to chest-level. The weight makes her knees buckle a little, but she feels so emboldened she ignores it. She closes the door behind her by knocking her body into it. Once she hears it click closed, Max makes her way into the hallway, which is nearly empty as the last few students get to their classrooms.

It’s supposed to rain later today, so they were planning to use the stage in the lecture hall, the same one they used for auditions. When she pushes on the crashbar with the box, the door gives way with little resistance. The room is spacious and empty. But then she hears something. 

It sounds like a laugh. No, practically a shadow of a laugh. 

“Is anyone there?” Max asks, unable to control the way her pitch skyrockets. She sets down the box on one of the aisle seats.  

In answer, she hears the sound of hinges, something like a door opening. She frowns taking a step forward, then another.  _ But what if it’s the other me? _ Her heart is pounding in her ribcage. 

_ I ripped that photo in front of her.  _ Max takes another step.  _ She’s going to be angry. _

With that, she steels herself forward, despite the way her limbs shake.  _ No, she wants me to be afraid.  _ She can’t give in to terror just because her malevolent clone wants to toy with her.

_ I have to keep going. _

She’s close enough that, when she hears the giggling, she flinches.  _ It’s her. Me. _ The familiarity of her own laugh is stifling. But then she remembers earlier, and she tries to channel that anger. She messed with her photos. She messed with  _ Victoria _ . 

As the giggling builds and builds, she pulls herself forward, eyes drawn to the sliver of a mirror peeking out from the curtain wing. It draws her in like a magnet. Equal parts rage and terror fill her senses, blocking out the surrounding sounds. She can’t help but pull the curtain aside to reveal what she thinks will be  _ her _ . 

But something else catches her attention. “Really? You’re  _ ridiculous. _ ”  _ What the hell? _

She sees the back of someone’s head in the mirror, short dark hair in a pixie cut. She’s in front of a closed door. The door then bursts open, revealing a tall, leggy woman with deep indigo hair.

She holds out a thin, square box, shouting out, “Pizza delivery!” It sounds so, so much like Chloe but also different, somehow. The voice constricts tightly around her heart.

Max sees the head bob up and down as laughter fills the air. “Oh, but I forgot I… I left- I left my money in my other pants?” She can barely even say it between giggles. 

“Oho, so you can’t pay with money?” An arm snakes around the short-haired woman’s waist. “I’m sure we can find…  _ another _ form of payment?”

“ _ Maaaybe, _ ” comes the answer, an attempt at matching the sing-song tone.

A giggle then, as one picks up the other bridal-style. “ _ Chloe! _ ” 

Max’s heart stops.  _ Chloe _ .

“What? Is little Max afraid of heights?” The teasing is light-hearted, just like always. Then, before she can catch her breath, they’re kissing, and a bed comes into view.

Max’s heart aches for something she can’t name. 

“Not afraid of  _ heights _ , Chloe.” Then, they’re kissing again. Sloppy, passionate kisses that say,  _ we don’t care if you judge us.  _ “Just- Just stay here.”

And, as she watches them climb onto the bed, Max realizes why it hurts to watch.  _ It’s us, _ she realizes,  _ it’s us but older. _ The hairstyles are a little different, of course, but there’s no mistaking those voices or those names. It’s Max and Chloe and nobody else, and, from watching them, they’re happy.

_ We’re actually happy? _ It seems so unbelievable, after everything they’ve gone through. Just the idea that there could be a world where Max and Chloe grow up together and stay together through thick and thin is hard to take. No apocalyptic prophecies or kidnapped girls or murder investigations, just living happily ever after  _ together.  _ It gets to that vulnerable part of her that she’s been trying to kill off for months.

“Hey, don’t worry, I got it,” Chloe says, softly. “I’m here with you.  _ Always _ .”

Bile climbs up her throat.

“ _ Stop, _ ” Max manages to say. Her hands grasp the edges of the mirror, and she shakes it. “Stop it, now.” She has to end it, somehow. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she can’t.

“Come here already,” The other Max pulls at Chloe’s shirt, and they’re kissing, despite all the abuse to the mirror. 

“Please!” Max cries out, and she can feel salty tears drip down her cheeks. “ _ Please. _ ”

They’re pulling at eachother’s clothing and kissing in between giggles and Max  _ can’t _ . Max can’t take it. She can’t. She can’t. She can’t. “Please! Stop it! I’m _ s-sorry _ !” 

Her volume rises without her permission. She can feel herself start to scream over the future playing out in front of her. The future that will never be. The future that she can’t have. The future denied to Chloe Price. “ _ I’ll do whatever you want!  _ Just stop  _ SHOWING _ me this!”

But they’re still right there in the mirror. It’s like it’s taunting her. It’s like it’s telling her just how much of a failure she is. Desperate, Max throws the mirror into the floor. Or the wall. Max can’t tell when up is down and down is up. Everything’s too blurred by tears and screams. Still, it gets the job done. 

The mirror shatters loud as the crash reverberates throughout the room. The echo lays beneath her screams, a haunting reminder as she starts to sway back and forth. She’s never screamed so much, or this loud before, and the room is spinning around her. As she falls, she lands on the shards of glass, but, through her sticky wet hair, she can still  _ see _ them in the pieces. She can see the love she gave up, and the regret kills her. 

She starts grabbing at the shards. “I’m sorry… I-” Her voice is hoarse. “I’m so sorry, Chloe…” They cut into her palms, but somehow they barely even hurt. It’s like she hurts too badly to even notice. She keeps gathering them up, but the pieces won’t fit together, no matter how much she pushes them. “I’m sorry.” She’s shaking as she lets out more sobs. She failed her. She still fails her, even after all this time. 

 

A hand grasps at her shoulder. “What are you doing? You’re- You’re  _ bleeding _ .”

Max turns, snot dripping down her nose.  _ Victoria? _ She opens her mouth to speak, but more sobs just come out. She must look so pathetic like this.

Victoria doesn’t even complain when Max cries into her sweater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Max goes through a lot this chapter. Unfortunately, in her desperation, she did something terrible. It might come off OOC to some, but, as we've seen in canon, Max is capable of doing some really insensitive things to others. And here, where she's alone, scared, desperate, and not taking care of herself, well... That's definitely not the recipe for caring acts of friendship or love. 
> 
> But, still, next chapter has a ton of Chasefield. There's a lot of rebuilding of trust to do!
> 
> P.S. Yes, the line about Victoria making Max feel dirty in the shower is canon. The wikia has all the journal entries from the game... and... Gosh, it's less dirty in context, but still!


	7. Max Loves Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about healing and learning to rely on each other. Please stay strong.

Moments don’t last forever, but sometimes they feel like they do. And, when they’re good, they should feel infinite, even though it’s a known fact they’re not. Max isn’t even sure if this moment can be called good. She thinks this has all the ingredients to be wonderful, but there’s too much to taint the feeling. There’s too much pain wrapped up in it. It’s a lick of ice cream with a bee sting, and it’s as though her mind isn’t made up whether this hurts or heals.

She’s just there, and Victoria’s there, too. And her head is in Victoria’s lap, and Victoria’s hand is on Max’s arm. But you know what isn’t there anymore? The tears, the screams, the agony.

Max doesn’t feel joy either, if she ever felt it. 

It’s just this empty crater, like an open scab. Her emotions are raw and vulnerable and exposed. She wants to cover it up, before blood seeps to the surface and stains her skin, but her head is in Victoria’s lap and she thinks it belongs there, for now. If Victoria disagreed, she would have moved by now.

“I got into an argument at the Vortex Party,” Victoria says finally, which makes Max shift in position to look at her. “The bruise,” Victoria elaborates. “I got it from the dealer we used for the party. He badmouthed Nathan.” She shrugs, but Max can hear some faint flicker of emotion in her voice. “I let him know just what I thought about that. That idiot couldn’t handle the truth.”

Max rests her head back down on her leg. She doesn’t know why she was so desperate to learn how Victoria received her bruise. She’s not even sure why it matters. But she’s glad she knows now, that she’s being trusted with the story. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Fuck off,” Victoria mutters, and her voice sounds as raw as Max feels.

Max doesn’t fuck off. She’s too tired to. Victoria looks tired, too.

It’s quiet then, and Max soaks in the silence. It’s empty but somehow pregnant with meaning at the same time. She thinks she could drown if she’s not careful, but, with Victoria, you kind of  _ have _ to be careful. Especially when your head is in her lap like this. Especially when she has every reason to walk away like this. So Max is only there, immersing herself in Victoria’s everything, teetering right on the edge between drowning and surviving. 

She reaches for Victoria’s hand, since it has to be there, somewhere. If that’s not too much. If Max even wanting that isn’t too much. But, even as she feels around for it around her arm, she’s not sure. “I-” She begins, but Victoria beats her to it.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” Victoria admits, and she pauses, as if unsure of what she’s about to say next, “I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell.”

At first, the statement comes out distorted, like Max is deep underwater. It’s formless sounds with no meaning, no history, nothing that could be anything. But then it echoes in her mind ( _ I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell _ ), soft at first ( _ I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell _ ) before gaining momentum ( _ I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell  _ **_I actually think you’re the coolest person at Blackwell_ ** ). 

Max’s eyes start to water from the raw honesty of her words. That’s what Victoria said at the Vortex party that week that never was. Max wasn’t the shit she’d stepped in, but the clouds she looked to and made out whatever shapes she wanted to see. It makes it all almost worth it. And it makes Max want to be honest, too.

She can finally say it. “I was in The Dark Room.”

Victoria’s hand starts to leave Max’s shoulder, like touching her is either going to taint  _ her _ or taint herself. Like it could change everything. Maybe it could. Maybe it already did.

Victoria says something, and it’s so soft that Max can barely make out the words, “Tell me.”

It sounds a little like  _ Taint me. _ It sounds a little more like  _ Trust me. _

It’s not that Max thinks she can trust her, in particular, but that she has to trust someone sooner or later. The secrets and double lives weigh too much to carry the burden alone. If she has to unload on anyone, it may as well be someone with a connection to what happened like Victoria Chase.

So she does.

 

 

Victoria’s eyes are stone, cold hard stone, as Max explains everything. Not  _ everything _ everything, she manages to tell her the overall picture, leaving out that Victoria died at least once in the Dark Room. She doesn’t know how to tell her that. But Max knows enough to tell she’s absolutely fuming. So, when she doesn’t say anything, Max inwardly starts to panic. Does she not believe her? It’s a lot to digest. Even Chloe was skeptical at first, and they’d been best friends forever. And there Max had the benefit of proving it to her. With Victoria, Max has nothing but her word.

“This is too much,” Victoria finally says. She shakes her head and mutters something under her breath that Max can’t make out.

Max expects the worst. Victoria doesn’t believe her. She’ll tell the whole school Max is a big, fat liar with pants on fire or however that expression goes. Maybe she’ll want to be lit on fire, or maybe it’ll just feel like it. Kate will avoid her even more since who wants to hang out with such a loser? Even Warren won’t want to be her friend anymore. No more nights smoking in the dorm hall with only the light of lit joints and cell phones saving them from total darkness. And Max will be all alone. And Chloe will still be dead. The flames will engulf her whole, or, again, maybe it’ll just feel like it.

But, then, Victoria lets out a noise of frustration, hand tearing at her hair. “Of fucking course. Of course the universe would give  _ you _ superpowers.”

“W-what?” Max sputters out, not because she didn’t hear her correctly but because Victoria actually believed her.  _ I didn’t even have to do anything _ .

“Because you’re just so special, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about? I’m not chosen or anything. It just… fell into my lap.”

“Everything just  _ falls _ into your lap. Even the space-time  _ continuum _ doesn’t mind being ripped apart if it’s Max “Butterflies Make Me Cry” Caulfield.”

And then it hits her. Victoria hasn’t changed at all. It’s all me, me,  _ me _ even when Max is the supposed superhero. Even when all the threads tie down Max and entrap her with obligation, even now. “I just told you that I went through hell, and you’re jealous it wasn’t  _ you _ . Typical.”

“Why would I be jealous?” Victoria snaps just to contradict her, “Do the powers come with a sense of self-righteousness or was that for free?”

Max can feel the blood rushing to her head.

“Well, good, you shouldn’t be jealous,” Max tells her, her hands closing into fists. “Because it sucked. It still sucks, and I can’t- I can’t make the things I’ve seen go away no matter how hard I try, and I think I fucked everything up beyond repair because,  _ yes _ , Victoria, you’re totally right. I was the worst person in the world to be given the rewind.” She stumbles as she moves toward her, feeling so angry that she’s almost kind of tired. “The fabric of time and space and whatever never recovered from me playing with it like it’s a toy, and I’m seeing things that aren’t there and losing things that  _ are _ there. I’m  _ still  _ paying for it, a-and sometimes I just want to die, just to make it stop. Just to have an end to it! I don’t  _ care _ if that sounds overdramatic; it’s the truth.”

Victoria is finally speechless. Max doesn’t know why she feels a stab of satisfaction at the sight.

Maybe that’s why Max continues her tirade. Or she just doesn’t know how to stop. “And you know what else? I don’t care about this play anymore either. Or The Tempest. Or any of this stupid theatre stuff! It’s all just lies, Victoria. It’s all just lies Shakespeare forcefed the audience, so they could escape the drudgery of their dead-end lives for a few hours. Just like what it’s doing to us now. We escape into the flowery bullshit to avoid saying what we really think and what we really  _ feel _ .”

Victoria’s mouth is open, slack-jawed. Max waits for her to say something, anything, but she’s met with silence. The novelty of Victoria’s shock starts to lose its luster. It’s getting less satisfying and more frustrating by the moment.

“What?” Max rubs awkwardly at her own arm. Her voice still sounds snippy, even though she doesn’t mean it to sound like she woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“How- How do you really feel?” Victoria asks, eyes wide with surprise and a little of something else too.

“I feel…” Max doesn’t know what to say. “I feel like I need help.” 

Victoria’s shoulders drop, and her expression hardens. Max frowns. Did she say the wrong thing?

“You could start with getting some rest,” Victoria tells her, from heat to ice, and the shift is so abrupt that Max doesn’t know what to think. “You don’t look like yourself lately. When’s the last time you slept? Or ate anything? Do yourself a favor, and go back to the dorms.”

“I can’t just skip school whenever I feel like it,” Max retorts, remembering the day she skipped class to take a shower with a shiver down her spine. She has to force the images of hands out of her mind. “Besides, it’s almost worse when I’m asleep. I’m… vulnerable.”

“Then, you’re lucky you’ll have someone there with you.” She says it like she’s expecting to sound deadpan, as if she’d rather be reading off a script. But, instead, she almost sounds worried. She almost sounds like she cares. “And it’s not skipping school if you look like you’re about to faint.” Maybe she does care.

And Max looks her in the eyes, wondering exactly what’s going through that head of hers. Whatever bond they forged over the last few weeks notwithstanding, Max thought Victoria was avoiding her in favor of playacting with Adam. “You’d do that for me?” She thought the lies mattered more to her than  _ this _ , whatever this is.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Victoria reminds her, “I still couldn’t be more angry with you if I tried, but...”

“But what?” Max presses.

For a minute, it looks like Victoria very much wants to say something. Her brow furrows, her mouth opens, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, she looks away, her gaze hard and unyielding.

“But nothing,” Victoria says, starting to turn and leave. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Max. Didn’t you ever read The Illiad?”

“Something, something, Don’t have extramarital affairs?”

“Look up the Trojan horse sometime.” Victoria rolls her eyes, but whatever humor could be there isn’t. Max doesn’t want to push her too far. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

  
  
  


Max is standing outside of her dorm, fumbling with her key.

It doesn’t help that right behind her is Victoria Chase, with her arms crossed and her eyes boring into Max’s back. Then, there’s the question, “Do you need help?” Max isn’t sure what would be worse: Victoria making fun of her or Victoria  _ not _ making fun of her. She isn’t used to a Victoria who wants to help her or- now that she’s thinking about it - help anyone.  _ How ironic that Victoria is fulfilling my New Year’s Resolutions right now more than I am. _

“Uh, no,” Max quickly replies, shoving the key in its slot. “I uh- got it under control.”

She unlocks her door and pulls the door open, nearly knocking into Victoria in the process.

Looking at her dorm room, she’s suddenly hit with shame. The space is a whirlwind of clothes and trash, scattered across the floor in piles and stacks. “I didn’t have a chance to clean lately.”

“That much is obvious,” Victoria says, casting her eyes over a pile of clothes on the floor.

Max goes to block the way between Victoria and the pile, as if shielding the sight would make it go away. “Being terrorized night and day does that to you,” Max replies defensively, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Do you have any idea  _ why _ this is happening?” Victoria asks, gingerly stepping over an empty bag of chips.

Max starts picking up trash from the floor. There’s more than she thought there was, but that’s the nature of trash. “Well, I would just get so freaking  _ scared _ that I’d put off sleep as long as possible. I tried covering the mirror, since Other Max has been using it to get to me but-”

“No,” Victoria corrects her. She looks like her patience is wearing thin. Max is having a hard time blaming her. It sounds like something from out of a horror movie. “Why do you think some other  _ version  _ of you is out to get you? How long has that been going on?”

“It started in December, and I don’t know,” Max tells her. “Look, I know how crazy it sounds. I’ve been living crazy ever since I got my powers in October.”

“It does sound crazy,” Victoria agrees, while Max tosses a candy wrapper into the trash. “But somehow that makes me _ more _ willing to believe you. Not even you could make this shit up.”

Max throws the last piece of trash into the bin. 

“Max, you have to rest,” Victoria says then, and it almost sounds like an order. No, knowing Victoria, it is completely and totally an order. But probably one that’s well-intentioned. 

“She’s going to get me,” Max mentions again, and she can’t help but feel a tinge of stubborn fear take over her stomach. It twists and turns under her hand.

“Shut up. I’m here, Max,” was all Victoria had to reassure her, but it works. Victoria being there for her settles her, even if she doesn’t understand why she’d be there, after everything.

She responds by sitting down on the bed, kicking her shoes off. “There, I’m doing it. I’m resting.”

Victoria is sitting down at Max’s desk, now. She looks uncomfortable. Then again, Victoria never really looks comfortable. There’s always something frigid in her posture, some tension in her eyes, that gives her away. “That looks more like sitting.”

Max slides over and lays down on the blanket. 

“Close your eyes,” Victoria instructs her. At her behest, Max closes them. It feels nice, almost soothing. She even wonders why she fought it. It’s like drifting into nothing after being enveloped by white noise. Almost all sensation is gone except the way her back carves into the mattress. But then she tries to move. Her body has settled so firmly that she can scarcely move her arm an inch, and, soon, the rest of her follows into the dark abyss.   

  
  
  


The next thing she knows she’s crouched over a toilet. A mixture of stomach acid, water, and bits of food keeps bursting from her throat and into the porcelain basin. Every time she thinks it’s over, her stomach pumps up more and bile graces her tongue. It fills the room with the pungent smell, but it could be taste and smell overlapping since they’re so closely linked. She feels gross and slimy, like a rotting pile of skin instead of regular flesh and bone. 

And there’s something gripping her hair. “Shit, Max.”

Her heart breaks. _ Chloe _ , and she remembers,  _ I promised you I wouldn’t _ . Yet she’s here, holding her hair for her while her pukes. 

Another burst of vomit arrives. “I-” She tries to say, but then another burst. Her stomach aches as her body lurches forward to unleash more of her insides. “I’m  _ sorry _ .” She feels tears run down her cheeks, and they stick to her bangs. Or maybe it’s vomit sticking to her bangs. She’s not that sure anymore.

“Max,” is all Chloe can say, and she sounds so worried that Max is blinking away more tears. “Oh, Max.”  _ Oh, my Chloe _ .

Then, her stomach turns again. It’s now just fluids, bright yellow liquid instead of thick lumps. She’s thrown up all the food she’s eaten recently, so she can only throw up bile. Then, her body finally slumps down, her head resting against the toilet seat. Her hands hang down, lightly hitting the empty bottles of rum next to it. And Chloe is gently rubbing circles into Max’s upper back, trying her best to comfort her despite everything they’ve been going through lately.

Soon, the hand leaves her back, and Max lets out a small whimper. 

“Chloe, you said it was under control,” she overhears Steph say.

“I… I thought so, too. I didn’t think this would happen to her on  _ date night _ , especially not when it’s V-” But then Steph interrupts her. 

“You need to get her help. Max can’t just rely on you for support anymore. This isn’t healthy. And it’s obviously not working.”

Then, she hears the faucet turn on and the sound of rushing water. “Look, I’ll pay for the rum she drank.”

“Chloe, aren’t you listening? Max needs serious  _ help _ . She’s abusing substances, and you know this can spiral out of control.” Steph even sounds worried, but the way she says it makes Max bristle. It’s none of her business what Max needs.

Chloe’s voice raises. “I tried to get Rachel help. She didn’t want it. What if-”

“She’ll listen to you. Max isn’t Rachel,” Steph says firmly.

There’s a short pause as it sinks in. “I know. Shit, I  _ know _ . Fuck.”

Then, everything goes black as she regains consciousness. She reaches out in front of her as if she could touch her dorm room ceiling if she tries hard enough.

“Victoria?” She mumbles, hearing her voice faintly. It’s barely loud enough to make out some words

“Well... Shakespeare... supposed to be challenging… Right, sorry… do my best… have to go, Mom… ” She strains herself to hear more, but it’s hard. It sounds like she’s talking outside the dorm room.  

The door swings open then, and light pours into the dim dorm room. “You’re awake.”

Max pulls herself into a sitting position. “I almost thought you left.”

She wishes she could see Victoria’s reaction, but the shadows on her face make it impossible. “What do you want to do? Do you want to go anywhere?”

  
  
  


The Two Whales is the same as it ever was, a snapshot of a timeless experience that will always remain the same no matter how the outside around it changes. It’s a relief, almost, to have something that has such a clear identity. The Two Whales diner will always be the Two Whales diner, no more and no less.

Max climbs into a booth seat. The last time she was at the Two Whales she was consoling Joyce Price. She had to pretend that she hadn’t met her again. She also had to pretend she didn’t let her daughter die. She gave her soft, ignorant smiles and clumsy attempts at comfort instead.  _ What would she say if I told her? _ She’s not sure what reaction she wants, if there even is one. Realistically speaking, Joyce probably wouldn’t believe her. Max herself can barely believe it happened. It feels like it happened to a different person, in another lifetime. 

But, somehow, Victoria Chase believes her, or at least doesn’t think she’s completely nuts. Maybe when the local news becomes implausible, people are willing to believe all sorts of things. Nice, famous photographer kidnaps girls with the help of the troubled rich kid? At that point, why not time travel? Hell, throw in Bigfoot, an assassination, or assassinating  _ Bigfoot _ , and they have themselves a party for conspiracy theorists. 

Victoria is sitting across from her, tapping the surface of the table. “I don’t usually go here.”

“No,” Max says as she watches Victoria fidget, “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“The nap must have done its job,” She replies, “if you’re well enough to be this sarcastic.”

“It’s the company I keep,” Max says, vaguely remembering that Chloe said it but not remembering the context. She feels like a lot of that week just hangs in the air without context, and, as much as she tries grab hold of each moment, they all slip from her fingers. “It’s an old-fashioned diner, with the jukebox and everything, so the menu isn’t going to be very exotic.”

Victoria looks over the menu with pursed lips. “Carbs, carbs, and more carbs.”

“There’s a section for salads,” Max points out.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Victoria says, making out to be like she’s just found it after a long, perilous search. “Yes, of course. How could I have missed the _ one _ whole salad item on the menu?”

Max rolls her eyes. “Okay, The Two Whales isn’t exactly the Farmer’s Market. But it’s not trying to be healthy. It’s a diner.”

“You don’t have to defend its honor to me, Max,” Victoria assures her, setting the menu down. “This place seems important to you. I get it.” Still, she sounds reluctant to say so, as if backing down on the matter means giving up her dignity.

“I used to go here with Chloe all the time. Her mom-”

Speak of the devil, Joyce Price slows her pace right in front of their booth, and Max cuts herself off. “If it isn’t Max Caulfield!” She forces some false cheer into her voice, but it makes her sound all the more tired. “It’s… It’s nice to see you. How have you been doing since…” She lets the question hang in the air, and Max can’t help but feel her heart twist in anguish.

“I’ve been doing better,” Max lies.

“Good,” Joyce smiles. “Same here.” From how the smile stretches just a little too wide and doesn’t reach her eyes, Max thinks she might be lying too. Then again, Max thinks everyone’s always lying these days. It’s possible that she’s just forcing Joyce into a mirror image. Like maybe her own grief isn’t ridiculous if someone else is having the same exact struggles.

Victoria clears her throat. Max can see her try not to squirm out of the corner of her eye.

Joyce maintains her smile, somehow. “It’s good that you brought a friend. I remember when you and Chloe would burst in like twin storms and eat half the ingredients-”

“And you’d get irritated, and I’d  _ beg _ you not to call my parents,” Max couldn’t help but continue.

An eyebrow quirks as her hip angles outward and the smile smooths into something genuine. “I never did charge them for their daughter eating me out of house and home. Or, in that case, diner and home.”

“You still could,” Max reminds her gently. “It’s not… It’s not too late to do  _ any _ of the things you wanted to do.”

“No,” Joyce says, “but it’s too late to do those things with  _ her _ .”

And Max doesn’t know what to say to that punch in the gut, so she says nothing.

“So, ah, what’ll you have?” Joyce segueways awkwardly, looking between them like she finally noticed they’re customers. “Anything to drink?”

Victoria looks up from the menu. Right as Max says, “The iced black tea, please,” Victoria says, “Give me the iced black tea.”

They look at each other, eyes wide. It feels like dining with a stranger, even though they’ve known each other for months. Maybe it’s because they never truly knew each other. Not the way Max knew Chloe. Not the way Victoria knew Taylor and Nathan. Maybe it’s simply them exploring what it means to not be so strange to one another.

“Two iced black teas,” Joyce jots down. “Do you know what you’ll have to eat?” 

“The salad,” She orders, looking askance. But Max is still looking at her.

“A cheeseburger,” Max says like the words are foreign to her, with her eyes still on Victoria. She still wonders at what happened and how she can get it to happen again, even as Joyce leaves them for another table.

“ _...Today, Blackwell Academy in Arcadia Bay is gearing up for their annual Springtime Play… Make sure you tune in at five for our interview with drama teacher Mr. Keaton... _ ” She can hear the television going in the background.

“So…” Victoria taps the table. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing me to her mom’s place.”

Max tries to swallow her disappointment, that their moment wasn’t etched across her face. But what was she expecting from her, anyways? “It’s a small town, Victoria. It’s kind of hard to avoid going to a store owned by someone you know.”

“There are other restaurants,” She points out.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“I didn’t say that,” She says, a little too quickly.

“ _...Here’s to the fish in troubled waters, Daniels. Oregon’s Fish Passage Task Force will meet the 21st to discuss statewide fish passage issues... _ ”

Max looks down at Victoria’s hands, the long digits stretching across from her palm. “Does it matter?”

Victoria sighs, “I don’t know, Max. This trip is for you, remember.”

Max shrugs. “I feel safe here.”

“Then, it  _ matters _ .”

But then, as if to argue, the next news story starts. “ _ Breaking news, photographer Mark Jefferson’s defense attorney Lee Benett is giving a statement at city hall today. Mr. Jefferson is facing multiple charges of aggravated kidnapping, assault, drug possession, and at least one count of manslaughter in what’s being called the art world scandal of the century. _ ”

Max turns back in her seat to look at the television. “I almost forgot about...”

Then, there’s a zoomed in shot of a man, portrait style. He’s wearing a collared white shirt. “ _ Considering the lack of uncompromised evidence, I think it’s clear my client is innocent, but it’s up to a jury of his peers to decide whether that’s the case. I am certain that they will understand why the prosecution’s supposed evidence doesn’t stack up to the facts. _ ” Max has never been one for violence, but she thinks she wants to punch him in the stomach.

It cuts back to the news anchors seated at their desk. One man. One woman. Both are wearing dark blue suits.

“ _ Now, Daniels, wasn’t Benett former District Attorney James Amber’s protege? _ ”

The man nods onscreen. “ _ Yes, I believe Amber endorsed him for District Attorney after he left office. Another shred of irony in this tragic case. _ ”

Max frowns. “Is James Amber…?”

“Rachel Amber’s dad,” Victoria frowns. Her brows furrow, troubled.

“Holy crap,” is all Max can say. “I… I can’t even imagine.”

“Just eat your shitty burger, Max.”

Max wants to argue, but she can feel the barely restrained anger emanating from Victoria. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and Max is hungry as hell. So she takes a bite.

  
  
  


When they get back into Victoria’s car, Max keeps her eyes on her, the way her hands curl into twin fists and her back rigidly flows from tense shoulders and her  _ eyes _ . Her eyes carry an inner storm bigger than the storm that never was, and Max wants nothing better than to soothe it with whatever’s in her power, just like she did in October. She doesn’t have the rewind, not anymore, so she has to try something else.

“Look, I...” Max watches her buckle herself in, and she does the same. She tries to gather the words. But what would be the right thing to say?

_ I saw how upset you were in the Two Whales _ . 

Victoria’s hands grip the steering wheel. Her knuckles are turning white.

_ I know you must be feeling angry about the news _ .

She’s practically breathing fire. Max can hear her exhale through her nose. She wonders then what a truly furious Victoria Chase is capable of. When she thinks back, she doesn’t believe she’s ever seen it. Victoria’s been mad at her, sure, but never downright murderous. The most she’s done to her is say some rude things and ignore her when she was terrified. There was nothing of the living, breathing, brewing rage that she sees now, the kind that alights every nerve within you and possesses you until there’s nothing left but pure emotion. 

The glint of a tear reflects sunlight on Victoria’s cheek.

Max wants to say something. No, not something-  _ anything _ . She wants to fill the pregnant silence with whatever inane thing she can come up with. She could talk about the weather, movies, freaking  _ Hawt Dawg Man  _ for fuck’s sake. Anything to distract herself from the outpouring of emotion. 

But then she remembers something.

_ You could always just _ , Kate said,  _ listen to me, for once _ .

Max unbuckles her seatbelt, turning toward Victoria, and she waits. She waits silently.

Victoria bends forward, resting her head at 12 o’clock on the steering wheel. “God, fuck!” It sounds exaggerated, despite the restrained feel of the sound. It vaguely reminds Max of what Mr. Keaton explained to them once, about how sometimes a character onstage will say a line of dialogue that’s meant to be inaudible to everyone but the audience. A stage whisper is almost paradoxical: it’s meant to be a whisper but it’s said almost like a regular line of dialogue. And like a stage whisper, Victoria’s outburst is hushed yet meant to be heard.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Victoria exclaims again, even softer this time, almost a whimper. Her voice is hoarse, as if she’s been shouting. But she hadn’t shouted even once that day, and, for some reason, the thought just makes Max want to cry, too.

But it’s not about Max, is it? It’s not about what Max is feeling or what Max regrets doing or even how Max wants to help. It’s about Victoria and what she needs.

Max slowly extends a tentative hand and brushes her fingertips against Victoria’s shoulder. She waits for an admonishment for touching her, but it doesn’t come. Max flattens her hand against the muscle there. She takes Victoria’s lack of reaction as encouragement. “What do you want to do?” She gently rubs her upper back, going in small circles against the tension.

“I- I want to go to the beach,” Victoria says with a sniffle.

  
  
  


They’re taking a stroll on the beach. As Max walks alongside Victoria on the shore, she breathes in the salty sea air. The last time she can remember this place, she also smelled beached whales and faintly cinnamon-scented lotion that belonged to a girl she thought she knew. Now, the air mingles with Victoria’s perfume, the thick floral notes that dance across her senses. Max breathes in deep, not sure when she’ll get to smell any of it again. It all feels transient, like this moment is a piece of dust to blow away in the breeze. 

“I don’t understand,” Victoria admits it as they pass a pile of seaweed. “I don’t understand any of it.”

Max peers over at her, sneaking a look at her face. There’s something hurried and messy about her eyeliner, usually such a pristine line of onyx black. “What are you thinking about?” 

“Jefferson seemed so wise and knowledgeable. Like he was above it all,” She says, eyes framed by short, thick lashes fixed on the sandy shore in front of them. “Untouched by all our petty squabbles. But he did all of that, didn’t he? With Nathan. To- to those girls. To  _ Rachel _ .”

“I can’t believe I looked up to him,” Max mutters under her breath. 

“I did, too,” Victoria confesses. “We all did, but he wasn’t worth any of it. I can’t believe I...”

“Don’t beat yourself up over that,” She tells her. “He  _ wants _ us to blame ourselves.”

“I can’t even- I can’t even wrap my mind around any of it. I shouldn’t have trusted him.”

“He was really _ good _ at playing that wise, older guy you can trust,” Max says with a shrug. “I think the worst people pretend to be the best, since it, you know, helps them get- get  _ victims _ .”

Victoria looks over at Max. “I’m not stupid. I know that. Do you think he’s the first photographer who turned out to be a creep?”

Max frowns and looks down at their feet. Victoria took off her flats, so Max can see her painted toes. Blue and white stripes adorn her nails, and Max thinks it must have taken hours to get right.

“First gallery exhibition I remember. I was about eight or nine, old enough that my parents thought I could behave and not embarrass them around their friends. This photographer starts plying me with juice, and he keeps calling me pretty. Insisting that I should go away with him for a shoot somewhere.”

Max wants her to stop, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I found out later that the reason my parents kept telling him “no” was because they  _ knew  _ why he always photographed little girls. And he wasn’t the only piece of shit at those parties. They kept  _ inviting _ them back, Max.”

Max is still silent, but her line of sight moves to the waters. She thinks it’s best to just let her talk.

“I don’t know why I thought Mr. Jefferson would be different. Or why I thought I would be different.” 

Max always envied her for her art connections. She pictured it so vividly in her mind: the kooky outfits, the minimalist furniture, the intellectual debates about what makes something “art.” She saw the pricey equipment and the famous name and thought she knew everything there was to know about Victoria Chase. She thought she had everything. That’s why Victoria’s behavior frustrated her so much, since Victoria had all the tools to be perfect. She had the grades, the money, the smarts. She didn’t need to bring people down to elevate herself. Max never considered until recently that there  _ is _ something weighing her down.

“It shouldn’t be on you to be different,” Max disagrees. “It’s on them to not prey on people. It’s on everyone else to make sure they pay for it when they do.”

“Just because the world should be a certain way doesn’t mean it is,” Victoria argues.

“Then,” Max says, “let’s change the world.”

Victoria lets out a soft breath that sounds almost like laughter. “I almost forgot. You’re an idealist.”

Max can’t help but smile. Not that it’s a large grin or anything, just the smallest tug at each corner. “Is that so bad?”

“Rachel was an idealist.” _ And Rachel died _ , she doesn’t need to say.

“I’m not Rachel,” Max points out and brushes her hand against Victoria’s, as an offering. Not like an offering to an uncaring god, not the kind of monetary donation Kate leaves at Church with the deepest of faith. It’s more like her side of a truce made with an inkling of hope that someday they’ll be okay. That Victoria and Max could  _ be _ something that’s okay to her.

It’s an offering Victoria accepts, from the way she entwines their fingers. Their hands are two twin curls, clasping each other tight enough that no breeze could separate them.

“I know,” She says.

This moment settles her balance. If the breeze picks up, it won’t leave her like any piece of dust. It’ll remain in her heart like a promise, silent but present just underneath the beat.

  
  
  


The sun shines brighter as the day goes on, heating the beach and reflecting off the crashing waves of the ocean.

“I’m going to help you figure it out,” Victoria says, kicking up some sand as she walks.

“Hm?” Max turns her head to look at her face. Victoria looks determined, a renewed energy reaching her eyes. Max thinks it’s kind of cute, if Victoria and the word “cute” can coexist in a sentence.

“The dreams with the other you,” She elaborates. “God, it still sounds crazy when I say it out loud.” 

She swings their joined hands a little. “Yet you believe me.”

“Yet I do,” Victoria says with a sigh. 

No, Max realizes, it’s not cute. It’s downright  _ powerful _ . There’s no telling what they could do if they put their minds to it. The sheer possibility in their shared determination is almost breathtaking.

“What do you think might be-” Just as she thinks they’ve made progress, she’s interrupted by her ringtone.

Max takes out her phone from her messenger bag, wondering who would be calling her. It’s probably about lunchtime by now, but it’s still odd to her. People usually don’t call her in the middle of the day like this.

“It’s Warren,” Max mumbles under her breath. “Could be important or it could be he wants to gush about something that happened in science class while I was gone.”

“Are you… going to take it?” 

Max looks up at Victoria, unsure how to interpret that. “Do you mind? Uh, I can talk to him later, if you want.” She knows now that taking a call while spending time with someone can be seen as rude. Still, she’s glad she took Kate’s call when she was with Chloe, even if she didn’t the first time around.

“No, take it. I need a moment to myself right now,” Victoria says, voice unwavering, though how much of it is genuine and how much of it is her trying to sound strong is anyone’s guess.

“If you’re sure,” Max replies as she steps away to take the call, though some part of her is still uncertain that that’s a good idea. But it’s what Victoria wants, so she simply answers the phone call. “Warren?”

He comes in thick and staticky on the other end. “Max? Hey, can we talk?” The connection must be bad around the beaches there. Max idly wonders where the nearest cell tower is.

“Uh, sure,” Max says and looks over at Victoria, who’s facing the ocean a couple yards away. She wonders what she’s looking at. The water? Or maybe ships in the distance? “But make it quick. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“So you know how I’ve been visiting Nathan,” He says it like a fact, which it is, even if Max isn’t sure how that’s important.

“Yeah,” Max ends up nodding before remembering he can’t see her.

“Well,” Warren continues, “Are you interested in a visit with him? I think it’d be a good idea.”

“What do you mean?” Max doesn’t remember interacting with Nathan much in this timeline. She’s not even sure he realized she was in the bathroom with him when he shot Chloe, since David Madsen came in almost immediately afterward. Once it was clear Chloe was dead, Nathan was taken from the scene immediately for questioning. 

“He wants to talk to you. You’re the only other person in the room when Chloe was shot, and you both knew her well. And you both knew  _ Jefferson _ well. So, maybe, I don’t know, it could-” Then, all she can hear is loud static.

“What?” Max interjects. “You’re breaking up.”

“It could give you two some much needed closure.”

Closure. Max scrapes at her phone cover with her nails. “If you think it’s a good idea.”

“So you’ll do it?” There’s such hope in his voice, and it breaks her a little. Did she ever sound like that, before all this? Before time and events made her feel so ancient? It’s like she’s experienced a thousand years yet lived none of it. The feeling is dizzying sometimes.

“S-sure,” Max tries to smile, even though there’s no one there to see it. “I’ll see him.”

They’re all still so young, yet they’ve experienced enough to warrant years of healing. Max can start by a single step in the right direction.

“Thank you, Max, I really appreciate it,” and then he says something that startles her, “Oh, by the way, Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Max blinks, the realization washing over her like cold water. “It’s Valentine’s Day?”

“...You’re  _ not  _ taking the day off for the holiday?” Warren asks, in curiosity.

No, she isn’t, since she wasn’t even keeping track. She can barely breathe from the implications. “Bye, Warren.” She presses the end button and lets her phone hang from her fingers. And she just watches. She watches even as Victoria turns to look at her, the sunlight shining along her tall silhouette. 

  
  
  


It takes a few days before they can fit in Max and Warren between meetings with Nathan’s family and meetings with Nathan’s lawyer. 

When Max asks Victoria whether she wants to come with, Victoria frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She smoothes out the wrinkles in Max’s bedspread, but Max keeps staring at her face and the way her expression folds into something different and yet familiar.

“I’m sure he’d be happy to see you,” Max says, confused at the downturn of her lips and the stony look in her eyes.

Then, Victoria doesn’t reply, and Max’s imagination is running wild. Did he say something to her? Did she say something to him? Is it guilt? Is it hatred? “What’s going on? I thought you’d been visiting him.”

“I talked to him on the phone, twice. Then, I saw him in person in December, but I didn't go again,” Victoria admits, and she looks away from her, like it’s too much. _That makes two whole months._ “Max, don’t make this a thing.”

“You haven’t visited him at all since then?” Max asks. She can’t be hearing this right. Victoria and Nathan are friends, or they were. She thought so, anyways.

“My parents didn’t think it was a good idea,” Victoria says, voice turning distant. The notes are almost robotic, without the flow that tells you a human being is speaking their original words. She wonders how many times Victoria’s said it in front of the mirror, to convince herself it’s truly what she thinks and not what she’s been told to think. 

“Do you want to see him?” Max lets the question hang in the air. 

Victoria doesn’t answer. Maybe there is no right answer to that.

There’s a knock at the door. “Hey, Max, ready to go?” Warren calls out from the other side.

Max sighs. She doesn’t want to push where she’s not wanted. “You can stay here, if you want.”

“Whatever, Max,” Victoria says, but, as Max leaves, she catches Victoria hugging one of the pillows. 

  
  


It’s strange to look at Nathan now. He never looked amazing; she suspects he wasn’t great at self-care even during the best of times. He always looked tired, and his posture made him seem even creepier than he was. But at least he looked alive. There was color in his face, and he twitched with barely contained energy. Now, his cheeks are sunken in, and he has dark circles under his eyes. His gaze is utterly blank, like he doesn’t even see you. Even his skin has greyed. This Nathan in front of her is a shadow of his former self. He’s a shade too light to be opaque, so he’s barely there, like a ghost.

But then again, considering what his former self was like, maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.

_ I hope Warren knows what he’s doing. _

“H-hey,” Warren says it gently, like this isn’t Nathan Prescott they’re talking to. He says it like he’s coddling a wound instead of a boy who wounds. “I brought someone with me today. You remember Max Caulfield?” He gestures towards Max, who’s pulling out a chair for herself.

Nathan looks from Warren to Max, and it’s odd not to see rage in his eyes. “You… You were in the bathroom that day, weren’t you?”

Max remembers it like it was yesterday, as cliche as that phrase is. Considering her sense of time is shot to hell, it may as well be yesterday. Or tomorrow. “You and Chloe came in while I- while I was taking a photo.” Or right now.

“I didn’t mean to- You  _ know _ I didn’t mean to hurt her...” 

_Do I know?_ The assumption prickles at her nerves. It seemed like he wanted to hurt her, or at least intimidate her, back in the bathroom that fateful day. She thinks she’s lived it enough times to be able to tell. But Max doesn’t feel like punishing him for it. She has to set aside grudges from old timelines to look at the Nathan of this timeline. He looks like he’s punished himself enough, so she just nods and says, “I know, Nathan.”

Nathan looks down, almost like he was expecting something else. What he’s expecting she’s not sure.  _ Maybe he wants me to tell him I forgive him.  _ “Yeah, sure.”  _ Or maybe he wants me to punish him more. _

“Nate, we just want you to get well,” Warren tells him, and his arm jerks forward a little before pausing and setting it down at his side. It almost looks like he was going to reach for him but thought better of it. His eyes are locked on Nathan’s hands, making Max feel like she’s missing something.  _ Since when was Nathan “Nate”...? _

The way Nathan looks at Warren is equally indecipherable, and it takes him a moment to remember to look at Max too. “Or you just want what I know.”

“What?” Max looks between them. “What do you know? What don’t  _ I  _ know?”

Warren clears his throat, hands fidgeting.

Max can feel her eyes water before she blinks it away, and it’s like she’s on the precipice of something new and dangerous. “What don’t I know?” She asks, again, as if she can pretend it’s okay that she doesn’t know.

“The media’s been saying that Prescott funded The Dark Room with total ignorance, not suspecting that Jefferson was doing more than tutoring his son,” and Warren looks at Nathan, “but it goes way further than that.”

“He- Mr. Jefferson told me that my dad was pushing him to go after the daughters of business rivals,” Nathan continues, barely able to meet Max’s eyes. “He didn’t want to, at first, for the… for the sake of “his art” but… Dad kept upping the price, and- it wasn’t hard; he owed us a lot. I don’t know what was done with the photos.”

Max doesn’t know either, but she can make some good guesses. Threats, scandals, blackmail, so much could be done with fuel like that. Or, maybe, they could have been selling them. Who knows what sick wackjobs like Sean Prescott and Mark Jefferson see in photos like that?

But it seems like a strange thing for Nathan to bring up now, of all times. “How come I haven’t heard about this?”

“As far as I’ve been able to tell,” Warren answers, “these haven’t been made known to the media.”

“So the police are keeping it on the downlow?” Max asks.

“Or they don’t have them in the first place,” Warren counters. “Either way, if Nathan’s right… Then, it’s not just Jefferson and Nathan involved in this.”

“From what he said, Arcadia Bay wasn’t Jefferson’s test run,” Nathan adds. “There was- there were other towns, just like this.”

There’s a heavy silence that falls over the three of them. Like a vice, the reveal takes a little something out of everyone. Warren is looking between them with this wide-eyed look of concern, like he’s lost his wits. “Max?” It’s easy to forget sometimes that he’s so young, even younger than she is. Max, meanwhile, is finding it hard to breathe. It’s also easy to forget The Dark Room, until you remember. 

“How many?” And Max remembers every second. Each second piles up until it’s above her head, and she’s suffocating, trying to take in air that doesn’t exist.

“I don’t know,” Nathan says. She can’t take it anymore.

Max stands up, slamming the table’s surface. “How. Many.”

“I- I don’t know!” Nathan’s voice cracks. He’s teary-eyed and pathetic, and Max just wants to scream.

“Max, stop!” Warren is trying to calm her down, placing a steadying hand on her arm, but she jerks her arm away.

“Bullshit!” And she doesn’t know how to stop, so she just keeps going. “How  _ many _ ? How many Kates  _ were  _ there?”

“This isn’t helping!” Warren looks between them helplessly.

“I told you,  _ bitch _ ,” Nathan cries, “I don’t fucking know! I wish I  _ did _ !”

And Max is crying too. The sound of sobs flood the room, enough that one can hardly tell which sobs are whose, and Max thinks she might be drowning in it.

Suddenly, an orderly is at her side, pulling her from the chair and away from the visiting room.

  
  
  


Now, they’re outside, and Warren is offering her a tissue. They’re sitting on a bench outside the center. She doesn’t quite remember how. It all happened so fast.

She wipes at her wet cheeks, stemming the tide. But everytime she thinks her eyes are done, more tears come out, first just a couple drops followed by a couple more and soon enough a constant stream. Finally, she manages to ask Warren a question. “How long?”

“Max,” is all Warren can say.

She balls up the tissue in her fist, turning her attention to his face. “How long did you know?”

“A few weeks,” Warren tells her, reluctantly, “but Max-”

“Warren! There could be other Kate’s, other Rachel’s,” Max goes back to the list of other victims that came forward, “other Megan’s, other Brittany’s, other… other Chloe’s… There already are, considering the photos of those business rivals’ kids are already buried! And he was sitting on this info for, what, months?!”

“He’s been trying, Max!” Warren points out, “But who do you think pays for his lawyer? If he testifies implicating his father like this, he says goodbye to ever getting out.”

“Then, maybe he should,” Max says. “He  _ helped _ him, Warren, him and his dad.”

“I know that, but right now he’s our one shot at making sure Mark Jefferson and the Prescotts pay for this.” Warren sighs. “He just wants to help.”

He has a point. She hates him for it, but he has a point.

Max looks down at her lap. “I guess I lost my cool in there, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but,” Warren says, “something tells me he’ll understand.”

She leans back against the bench, staring down at the ball of tissue in her lap.

“He needs support, more than anything,” He says. “I know it’s hard for you to do that, considering everything he did - and of course, he did some awful,  _ awful _ things, but that’s what’s going to bring justice to these girls: compassion, not anger.”

“I didn’t mean to. I thought I wasn’t mad at him anymore,” Max admits. “I thought I- I don’t know. I thought I  _ forgave _ him.”

“I went into our first visit thinking I was going to be impartial, too.” Then, he lets out a breath of short, bitter laughter. “I wasn’t. I yelled at him. I asked him why he did this, why he had to hurt so many people. You and Kate and all of our friends were all suffering so much, and no one was telling me anything. I just wanted to- I just wanted to get us all some closure, you know? I left thinking I ruined it. But the next time I came there, he didn’t turn me away.”

She still can’t help but wonder about that.

“How long have you been visiting him?” Max asks with a lift of her head.

“Since late December,” Warren replies.  _ That makes two whole months. _

“All that time,” Max summarizes, “and you didn’t tell any of us.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, so they spend the rest of their time in silence.

  
  
  


When she comes back, she runs to her room, racing past people she knows and people she could have known if she tried. It’s like a sea of shadows, not quite ghosts but not quite people. It’s not binary; it’s not either she knows them or doesn’t know them. It’s more like there’s things she knows that she couldn’t know, from the way this timeline turned out. She couldn’t know Evan’s favorite photographer or that Stella’s a scholarship student, but she knows. And the smiles and greetings they give her are for a girl they never tried to understand, since there’s no need. She’s just a girl in a class or two of theirs. She’s just a girl they barely know.

So when she goes to her dorm, hoping she’d find Victoria there, she feels everything drain out of her when she’s welcomed by an empty room. She closes the door shut and turns around. She increases her pace and directs her speed towards Victoria’s dorm. As her knuckle collides with the door, it swings open to the sight of Adam. In Victoria’s dorm room. And he has the gall to smile at Max as he leaves.

“Victoria?” But somehow it hurts, the way Victoria looks at her. It hurts even though she’s not just a girl she barely knows. Maybe it hurts because she knows her.

“Max,” She tells her, “I-”

Her face says,  _ you hurt me. I trusted you. You tainted me _ . 

“It’s okay,” Max says, as she starts to walk away from the door frame. Victoria has every right to push her away after everything that's happened. She understands that, now. “I get it.”

“No,” Victoria says, grabbing Max’s wrist. “Stop that. Come in; let’s talk.”

Max can feel people’s eyes on her. She wonders what they must think, the people in the hallway, the people who barely know either of them but know just enough to be confused. She wonders when she stopped caring what people thought.

“Okay,” Max says, and she enters Victoria’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might seem odd that Victoria believes Max when Chloe had to have it proven, but I chalk it up to how different the circumstances are, especially in how she's seen a very different Max in these past months. I also wanted to make a point that she is jealous of Max in canon, which could make it more likely for her to believe something so big could happen to Max Caulfield, of all people. It also might seem weird at first that Victoria is partially blaming herself for trusting Jefferson, but I think it follows a pattern with her. In season 1, she kind of blames Kate for what happened to her when confronted, so I believe she internalized society's victim-blaming nature for one reason or another.


End file.
